


Under The Hill

by latin_cat



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (1963)
Genre: Celtic Mythology & Folklore, Dubious Consent, F/M, Light Angst, M/M, Mind Control, Pre-Slash, UNIT
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-25
Updated: 2018-01-15
Packaged: 2018-09-19 22:24:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 33,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9462908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/latin_cat/pseuds/latin_cat
Summary: A UNIT expedition to the village of Wootton Underhill in Dorset has gone terribly wrong, and the team are running out of time to rescue one of their own.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story is set somewhere between "The Daemons" and "The Sea Devils".
> 
> With continued thanks to my ever-tolerant beta reader and advisor on all things military, Sharpiefan.

It was hard to remember. The images were hazy, but during the times he was alone – really alone, when _her_ presence was away from him – if he concentrated, he could remember things which had happened before now.

There had been a stone circle, of this he was certain. A circle of tall standing stones; grey, weathered granite older than the hills, strong with ancient power. He had gone there… for what? There had been a purpose, a reason, and he had not gone alone. Yes, he remembered them now. Men in uniform; him, them, a girl and… someone else he could not picture.  They had gone because something was going to happen – something dreadful, his gut told him – but what that something might have been eluded him. He remembered that there had been a skirmish of sorts; in his mind he saw people in white robes pitted against the uniformed men. The fighting was savage, though the uniforms had been winning, but then…

But then.

She had returned to him. His heart raced and his breath caught, as they did every time he laid eyes on her; all at once captivating and terrible in her beauty. She caressed his face with snow-white fingers – her touch a spark of energy that shuddered down his spine – then she tilted his chin towards her, her long nails grazing his throat; sharp and exquisite. Her deep, dark eyes held him in their gaze as she studied him, a frown threatening to crease her high, smooth brow.

_Something troubles you. Tell me._

There were images in his head, he said. Things that he thought he ought to remember, that he felt it was important he should remember.

She laughed. _Do not let such fancies trouble you. They are but dreams, and fleeting._ Her grip tightened. _And what dream could grant you more than your Queen?_

Yes, his Queen. The delicate threads of memory snapped like spiders’ web, the fragile mesh he’d constructed from the past falling apart. Memory. Was that what it was? Was it not a sort of dream? Either way, it did not matter. What could matter beyond this moment, where everything was glorious starlight and there was nothing but _her?_ His Queen; tall and slender, beautiful and cruel, Mother of the Sidhe, and ruler of all beneath the Mound. No. Nothing ever could.

The Queen’s eyes glinted and she smiled. She cast her arms about him, her limbs glimmering like silver, drawing him into her embrace. Her crow-black hair fell around them, and she kissed him with lips the colour of newly-spilt blood. He gasped, his veins singing with liquid fire, and the Queen laughed gleefully, her voice filling every corner of his mind; soft as the sweetest lullaby, shrill as the fiercest hurricane.

_You are mine, my dear one. Mine until your days run dry._

***

Fairies.

Even with all the things they had seen – Yetis, Daleks, Cybermen, Silurians and Axons – it had still taken them some convincing that the Doctor really meant it. Fairies. Benton remembered that the Brigadier had given a sharp bark of laughter at the idea, a rare slip in his usual self-restraint, before sobering at the expression on the Doctor’s face.

It had started a week ago with an alert from the Met Office. Freak weather patterns had been reported over a highly localised area in Dorset, specifically the village of Wootton Underhill. The Brigadier had sent a small team, namely the Doctor and Jo, to conduct an initial recce. The two had set off in Bessie with relatively high spirits – the Doctor saying he quite fancied a little jaunt through Dorset – but they had been gone only a day when, quite out of the blue, Bessie had screeched back into the HQ forecourt bearing the Doctor, pale-faced and grim. He had jumped out of the car, run straight up the main staircase and to the Brigadier’s office. When the Brig, startled by the Doctor’s quick reappearance, had asked what the matter was, the Doctor had replied with only one word:

_'Fairies.'_

Benton would never use that word lightly ever again. He doubted whether anyone else in UNIT ever would, either.

They had been here for a very long time, according to the Doctor. It wasn’t quite the Silurians all over again; they were creatures that inhabited a parallel plain of existence, their technology based upon odic energies (the channelling of the vital and psionic forces, the Doctor had explained at his, Yates’ and the Brigadier’s blank expressions) who travelled between their realm and other worlds through the use of stone circles. They called themselves the Sidhe. Eventually, about a thousand years ago, humans had found a way to banish them and close the Circles – but every now and again, as was the case in Wootton Underhill, the Sidhe found a way to creep through.

The person responsible this time was an academic called Rufus Hargreaves. Apparently the man had fancied himself a modern-day Aleister Crowley ( _'That man has a lot to answer for!'_ the Doctor had growled), and had built himself a sizeable cult down in Wootton Underhill. Through his dubious experiments at the stone circle there, he had accidentally made contact with the Sidhe. Hargreaves naturally took this as a sign that he would ascend to divinity, the Sidhe having offered him what Captain Yates archly referred to as ‘the usual package deal’; wisdom, power, and immortality. The Doctor had tried to reason with the fool, of course, but Hargreaves was too far gone.

It was clear that these Sidhe were bad news, the Brigadier had said. It was the first time the Doctor had specifically told him to bring a tank or two, if he could possibly get them.

The team had assembled and headed off down the A30 within four hours. They would pick up the tanks on the way down at Tidworth, where they’d rendezvous with reinforcements from the Regulars at Bovington. By the time they reached Wootton Underhill they’d collected quite an impressive convoy. It was a foregone conclusion that Hargreaves would know UNIT were onto him; there was no way on Earth the arrival of five Land Rovers, three Bedfords, and two low-loaders with tanks under their tarpaulins in a sleepy country village could have in any way been called inconspicuous.

Jo met them at the crossroads outside the village, having stayed to keep an eye on things whilst the Doctor had gone to report back. She'd managed to glean the intelligence that Hargreaves was planning on opening the Circle that night – half moon, she’d heard him say, being the symbolic meeting of the worlds of light and shadow. The Brigadier had been all for going straight up to Hargreaves’ manor and arresting him, only for the Doctor, in his uniquely diplomatic manner, to tell him not to be an idiot. Apparently not only did Hargreaves have his cult up there, armed and more than willing to spill blood for their leader, but he had also built a series of psionic amplifiers; the troops would not be able to get within a hundred yards of the house without having their minds turned inside out. The option of simply shelling the place from a safe distance was equally frowned upon. When the Brigadier had rather acidly requested an alternative suggestion, the Doctor proposed that they wait for Hargreaves to emerge that night. They had roughly six hours in which to prepare an ambush, in which time it would be possible to build a machine that could both neutralise the cult’s psionic field and render the Circle permanently inert. It would be cutting it a bit fine, the Doctor admitted, but it should work.

 _'And if it doesn’t?'_ the Brigadier had asked.

 _'My dear Lethbridge-Stewart,'_ the Doctor had replied with a sigh. _'That is what the tanks are for!'_

As far as the Doctor’s predictions were concerned, things went pretty much to schedule. The scouts had reported increased activity up at the manor – lights, drums and an awful lot of chanting – around 23:00.

 _'Getting ready for the off, I should think, sir!'_ Yates had ventured over the radio.

Which, indeed, did prove to be the case. A quarter of an hour later the cult had emerged wearing full regalia, with burning torches, cymbals, banners. Hargreaves was borne along at shoulder height on a litter, wearing a ludicrous pair of ox horns on his head and swathed in what looked like an old velvet curtain. Benton had pitied the poor devils carrying him – the fellow wasn’t exactly a lightweight.

The Brig had reluctantly agreed to the Doctor’s pulling back the cordon; Hargreaves would have a portable odic amplifier for the ceremony, and any attempt from UNIT members to impede his progress would most likely have ended with them torn to shreds. The men were to observe from concealed positions, but not to engage under any circumstances until the Brigadier gave the word. The plan, they had been briefed, was to let Hargreaves and his people get up to the rise just below the Circle where they’d be out in the open.  The Doctor would turn on his machine to neutralise Hargreaves’ own equipment, after which UNIT would move in and apprehend the cultists. It was to be strictly hand-to-hand combat; most of the cultists were unarmed civilians only guilty of being misled - so arrest, with hopefully not too many injuries, was the order for the evening. That, and no one was to be allowed to step into the Circle itself; this, the Doctor had said, was imperative.

There was a saying about the best-laid plans of mice and men.

The Doctor’s part of the proceedings went splendidly. When the procession was in range, he’d switched on his machine and blown Hargreaves’ own equipment – concealed under his throne, judging by the cloud of smoke which had engulfed the startled man – after which the Brig gave the signal for the men to move in. Though the cultists were not in possession of firearms, there were several blades in evidence, and each one fought with the wild desperation of the truly fanatical. It was a messy, highly un-military brawl in which no holds were barred on either side. There were fists flying, legs flailing, black eyes, biting and broken noses, and the UNIT boys had loved it. It had been a nice change to be able to get up close and physical with an enemy for once, instead of running for cover and praying that bullets might, just _might_ , work this time. Plus fanatical desperation could only get the cultists so far, and within ten minutes it was close to declaring one-nil in favour of UNIT v Wootton Wanderers.

Then Hargreaves, seeing that his chance to bring the Sidhe through was lost, had made a dash for the Circle. The Brig, being the nearest at the time, had chased him down. It was at that point everything had gone to hell.

It was now roughly eight in the morning, and their so-called ‘war council’ had crammed themselves into the Brigadier’s office. There were not nearly enough chairs available, of course, so various personnel were stood or perched where they could find room. This didn’t, however, stop the Doctor from pacing.

Benton had seen the Doctor when he was angry and, though it was an undeniably impressive sight, he had to admit that it had never frightened him (that he was usually on the Doctor’s side did help a bit, of course). No, what really unnerved Sergeant Benton was seeing the Doctor worried. For the Doc to openly display any anxiety, things had to be very bad indeed – and Benton could not ever recall seeing the Doctor look more worried than he did right now.

'Doctor, it wasn’t your fault,' Jo said, attempting to offer some sort of comfort. Bless Jo, she always did. 'It wasn’t anybody’s fault.'

'And we did stop the invasion,' Yates chipped in, though Benton could tell that he too was struggling to look on the bright side; they all were, to a greater or lesser degree. It didn’t help that none of them had got much sleep over the past couple of days. 'The Circle was sealed. They can’t use it again.'

'Yes,' the Doctor said acidly. He halted in his pacing, and turned a suddenly furious gaze on the captain. 'But neither can we!'

And there it was; the bitter taste in an otherwise sweet victory. All eyes were involuntarily drawn to the empty chair behind the Brigadier’s desk. Despite the shortage of furniture, nobody had dreamed of occupying that seat. Somehow it would have seemed like admitting defeat.

Jo was the first to look away. She turned her gaze back to the Doctor, pleading.

'Doctor, is there really no hope?' she asked quietly. In response, the Doctor’s expression softened a fraction.

'There’s always hope, Jo,' he said.

'So, there is a way?' Yates asked cautiously.

The Doctor sighed, running a distracted hand through his mass of white hair.

'Yes, there is a way,' he said. 'But it’s a question of time, which we don’t have. We’d need to find another Circle in order to make a breach, but most of them have been broken for centuries. And even if we were lucky enough to find another one that was merely dormant, it could take weeks to get it working on the correct frequency – and by then it would be too late for the Brigadier.'

'What about Stonehenge?' Jo suggested. 'They’ve pieced it all back together now. Couldn’t we use that?'

'Hardly, I’m afraid,' the Doctor replied glumly. 'That so-called ‘restoration’ won’t have done it much good. The channelling of odic energies requires precision engineering, and rearranging the stones would simply take too long. Besides, I don’t think we’ll be that popular with the Ancient Monuments Commission if after all their hard work we start taking it apart again!'

'Well, how long _do_ we have?' Benton asked, thinking they had better establish that at least.

The Doctor rubbed his chin thoughtfully. 'Two days, maybe three. It’s all so infuriating! If the TARDIS were working I’d just hop into the vortex, locate a suitable Circle, come back again and we could open a breach in no time at all. As it is…' His voice trailed off, and once again the office fell into silence.

From outside the day-to-day sounds of life at UNIT HQ filtered through; Corporal Bell’s typewriter, the trundle of Land Rovers over gravel, the distant crack of rifles on the ranges, accompanied by the voice of Sergeant Palmer giving some unfortunate a bollocking for Lord-Knew-What-This-Time.

'Doctor,' Jo said hesitantly. 'You haven’t actually told us; what will happen to the Brigadier if we don’t reach him in time?'

The Doctor paused before answering. When he turned to look at them, his shoulders were hunched and there was a sad expression in his grey eyes.

'He’ll die,' he said flatly. 'Or worse.'

'Worse?' Yates asked.

'He’ll become one of them.'

Whatever answer they may have collectively been expecting, it was certainly not that. Getting over the initial shock, Benton realised that his mouth was hanging open. He shut it quickly.

'But how is that even possible?' he asked, once he had found his voice again.

'Sidhe are like vampires,' the Doctor replied, shoving his hands in his pockets. 'They’ve developed the ability to trigger genetic conversion in compatible species.'

'So, if you’re bitten by a fairy you become a fairy?' Jo reasoned.

The Doctor grimaced. 'Well, yes, not quite as simple as that, Jo, but near enough. It’s a combination of psychic manipulation and a genetic catalyst. The Brigadier’s a tough old bird; he won’t go down without a fight, but even if he does manage to resist them for a time, they will kill him eventually.'

Yates rubbed his temples wearily, and Benton couldn’t help but feel sorry for his friend. With the Brig MIA the running of HQ had fallen onto Mike’s shoulders – as had the organisation of the clear-up operation, and the fielding of awkward questions from Geneva which were getting increasingly awkward by the hour. Besides all that, the captain was sporting an absolute beaut of a black eye which would probably see him well into next week.

'So,' Yates said heavily. 'We can’t use the Circle at Wootton Underhill, and we don’t have the time to repair another one. What else is there?'

What else, indeed? Benton cast his mind back to the night before last, after the skirmish had ended. As soon as the Doctor had declared it safe to go near the Circle, the sergeant had been up there like a bat out of hell - it had been all he could do to stop himself from going after the Brigadier beforehand. As he’d reached the top of the hill, he had seen there was a body lying amongst the stones.

_'Sir!'_

In that moment, darting forward between the stones, Benton had felt as if his guts had turned to ice. But it was not the Brigadier; the dark form on the ground had been Hargreaves, or at least, what was left of Hargreaves. The man was lying on his back in a still-spreading pool of blood, chest and abdomen ripped open, guts splayed around him, eyes gouged out of the sockets and placed into a mouth that was still open from screaming. Of the Brigadier, there was no sign.

Benton had cast wildly around the Circle, searching for some clue as to his CO’s fate, when he’d spotted the Brigadier’s hat lying at the foot of one of the larger stones a couple of yards away. He’d gone over and picked it up carefully; the cloth was cold, damp with dew and muddied, apparently having been trodden into the ground by at least two pairs of careless feet. Behind him, the Doctor and Jo had arrived on the scene. Jo let slip a gasp and turned her head away when she’d seen the mess that had been Hargreaves, but the Doctor had spared the body only a glance, seemingly not in the least bit shocked or surprised.

 _'Sergeant Benton,'_ the Doctor had said quietly. _'Would you be so kind as to give that to me?'_

Had it been anyone but the Doctor, Benton wasn’t sure whether he would’ve been able to let go. As it was, he had managed to persuade his fingers to uncurl enough that the Doctor could take the hat from him.

 _'Thank you,'_ the Doctor had murmured kindly, reassuringly.

 _'What’s happened to him, Doc?'_ Benton had asked, somehow finding his voice. _'Where is he?'_

The Brigadier could not simply be dead, else there would have been another body alongside Hargreaves. The Doctor had taken out his sonic screwdriver and scanned the hat, the results of which had not appeared to comfort him. He’d looked up, his face grim, his gaze fixed squarely on Benton.

_'It’s as I feared. They’ve taken him.'_

_'Who have?'_

_'Them.'_

And so they had returned to HQ a man down, and no one was entirely sure what to do next. To Benton’s mind it may have been better if the Brigadier were simply dead; knowing he was alive, a prisoner, yet beyond hope of rescue… Unbidden, stories that the sergeant had heard as a child echoed back into his mind; babies snatched from their cradles, wandering beggars driven mad by fairy music, young couples parted on the eve of their wedding, unearthly folk who danced beneath the starlight, the traces of their footsteps plain to see the next morning as  –

Hang about.

Benton stilled, the thought arriving in his head so suddenly that he was almost afraid it might disappear again. No, the idea was daft, wasn’t it?  But just as daft as anything else that had happened over the past few days, so maybe it was worth a shot?

The sergeant licked his lips nervously, casting his gaze over to Yates and the Doctor. 'Can’t we make one of our own?' he asked.

Yates articulated a noise that sounded somewhere between a snort and a cough. 'I think building a stone circle in two days is a bit beyond even us, sergeant.'

'Yes, sir. Sorry, sir. But does it _have_ to be made of stone?'

The Doctor held up a quelling hand as Yates opened his mouth to speak again. 'Now just a minute, Captain Yates.' The Time Lord’s eyes were suddenly alert. 'I think he’s onto something. Go on, sergeant. Tell us your idea.'

Benton swallowed, hoping that what he was about to say didn’t sound as half-baked as it did in his head.

'Well,' he ventured. 'There’s more than one kind of fairy circle, isn’t there? My gran was an old country girl, and she set a great store by superstition. One of the things she told us when we were kids was never to step in a fairy ring, else they’d come and carry us away. Couldn’t we open a gateway with a fairy ring?'

There was a beat of silence, and then the Doctor’s face broke into a smile.

'Yes!' he cried. 'Yes, I believe we could! Why, sergeant, that’s brilliant! Why on Earth didn’t I think of it before?'

'You mean we can grow our own gateway?' Jo asked, the disbelief in her voice fast being replaced by wonder.

The Doctor laughed, giddy as a schoolboy. 'My dear Jo,' he said, seizing both her hands. 'Not only is it much, much simpler to channel odic energies through living tissue than through minerals, but we can grow our Circle, use it, then destroy it immediately after we’re back through! A perfect temporary breach, causing almost no disruption in the dimensional barriers!'

'Sorry, you’ve lost me,' Yates confessed, frowning. 'It’s still going to take us more than a couple of days to grow a ring, isn’t it? Unless there’s some kind of Venusian daisy you’ve got access to that springs up almost instantly.'

'Or we could use mushrooms,' Benton suggested, deciding to test his luck further. 'They practically grow overnight.'

'Capital!' The Doctor rubbed his hands together with glee. Their course of action, it seemed, was decided. Jo, I need you to get on to Supplies and source me some mushroom spores. Captain Yates, I’ll need a secure area outside to set up the Circle - not too close to the main building, just in case something goes wrong. Sergeant Benton, I need you to assemble a small team of five, yes, five of your best men. Seven’s a good number in total for an expedition of this sort. Have them ready for tomorrow morning. I’ll make a start on Hargreaves’ equipment.'

'But -'

'No buts, my dear Yates!' the Doctor chided. His eyes were alight with determination. ' _Now_ we have a chance!'

***

In the Hall he sat at the Queen’s right hand, his head resting upon her knee as she raked her sharp nails languidly through his hair. Every now and then she would ask him a question, to which he would readily give his answer.

_Are there many humans alive in the world?_

Yes, almost too many to count.

_Do they still suffer from hunger and disease?_

Some did, some not. It had always been that way.

_Do they have powerful weapons?_

There were weapons so powerful that they could kill millions in one strike.

_Do they know magic?_

No, it had been forgotten long ago.

_Is there much iron in the mortal realm?_

Yes, but not as much as there used to be. Aluminium and plastics had replaced it for many purposes.

The answer produced a ripple of excitement which swept through the Hall, for the Sidhe hated iron above all else, and idly he wondered how he knew of such human concerns when his Queen did not. As he was pondering this, she took up a platter and offered it to him.

_You have not eaten, and you grow so thin. Do try these dormice, they are so very tender._

It was true, he had not eaten. Judging by the pitiful gurgle his stomach gave at that moment, it seemed he had not done so for some time. Sitting up he reached for the plate, but then he saw that the morsels before him were nothing but corruption - raw, rancid flesh thick with the stench of decay. He choked, drawing back his hand as if stung, and all at once the Hall fell silent 

The Queen frowned, confused.

_Does the dish displease you?_

No, he…

He looked again. The plate bore roasted dormice glazed with honey, fresh and wholesome, as was all the fare at the Queen’s table. His mouth watered, yet the carrion smell still lingered in his nostrils.

He… He found that he had no appetite.

A flicker of what looked like annoyance passed across the Queen’s face, but then she smiled, dismissing the platter with a wave.

 _No matter! You will have to eat sometime, my dear, and I am patient._ Her eyes took on a predatory gleam. _We shall satisfy your hunger soon enough._


	2. Chapter 2

'It all depends on whether he’s eaten anything or not,' the Doctor muttered, winding the last wire into place around the negative terminal.

'How’s that?' Benton asked, passing him the wire cutters.

'The genetic catalyst,' the Doctor said, as he snipped the excess short. 'For it to work, the Sidhe need the victim to ingest it of their own free will. Traditionally they conceal it in food.'

'I remember something about that,' Benton murmured. He frowned, trying to recall. 'Gran said that if you ate anything the fairies gave you, you could never go home.'

'Seems like a shrewd woman, your Granny Benton,' the Doctor said, screwing the panel back into place. 'There’s many a piece of old wisdom that’s been handed down as superstition.'

'I doubt it, Doc,' Benton said ruefully. 'She used to count magpies, and if she saw a black cat anywhere whilst she was out she refused to go any further until it had gone.'

The Doctor coughed. 'Yes, well, some superstitions, anyway.'

Satisfied that Hargreaves' equipment was once again in working order, the Doctor motioned for Benton to pick up the machine and follow him to the waiting Land Rover. A section of open ground at the far end of the rifle ranges had been cordoned off for the attempt; still within the wire, but far enough from the complex that, should things go wrong and some Sidhe manage to slip through, there was plenty of space to do some very swift and heavy damage. Yates was supervising the siting of a machine gun when Benton and the Doctor rolled up.

'All ready here, Captain Yates?' the Doctor asked, jumping out of the passenger seat as soon as they’d stopped.

'As we’ll ever be,' Yates replied, walking over to them. 'We’ve got the MGs set for a full sweep of the area, and all the men have been issued with grenades.'

'Yes,' the Doctor said, his eyes quickly taking in the set-up before him. 'Good. Should anything follow us through on our return, you should be able to hold them off long enough for me to close the Circle. Where’s Jo?'

Yates pointed at the Circle. 'Over there with Benton’s magic mushrooms.'

The sergeant winced. 'Please don’t call them that, sir!'

Yates grinned. 'Sorry, couldn’t help it. You all set, Doctor?'

'It’ll take about fifteen minutes to connect the amplifier,' the Doctor said. 'After that we switch on, wait for the energy to build and open a gateway. Is your team assembled, Sergeant Benton?'

'Yes, Doc. Five men, like you asked; Harris, Jenkins, Cole, Walsh, and Miller.'

'All armed, I take it?'

'Of course, Doctor.'

'Well, that won’t do at all! Tell them to leave their weapons behind.'

Yates and Benton’s expressions suggested that the Doctor had taken leave of his senses.

'I assure you, gentlemen,' the Doctor said, a glint of steel in his eyes. 'I would not insist unless it were a matter of the utmost necessity. Bring your men over here. Now then,' he continued, once Benton had rounded up the squaddies. 'This is a highly dangerous mission but, nonetheless, it is primarily a diplomatic mission. We are going in to negotiate with the Sidhe for the release of the Brigadier. To that end, we are going in unarmed.'

'You what?' Miller exclaimed in disbelief, but Benton shot him a silencing glare. The sergeant couldn’t help sympathising, though. Miller wasn’t the only one who didn’t take well to the news; the rest of the squad were decidedly uncomfortable with the concept, and Jenkins was looking downright mutinous. But the Doctor knew best. Most of the time, anyway. 

'And do you think they’ll oblige?' Yates asked pointedly. He was no happier than the men.

'Potentially,' the Doctor replied, well aware that it was not the most reassuring answer. 'The Sidhe are an unpredictable species; they are proud, vain, selfish and fond of pointless acts of cruelty. But the Seelie Court is bound by a code of courtesy; their society is structured around the concept of fair exchange, be that goods, hospitality or favours. If we go to them armed, they will respond in kind. If we go unarmed, in peace, they will at least hear what we have to say. And, if approaced in the correct manner, they are inclined to listen to reason.'

'And what if they say "no" and turn nasty on us?' Benton asked, unable to keep his peace any longer.

'Then guns won’t be much use to you, whatever happens,' the Doctor said flatly. 'In their natural environment the Sidhe’s powers will be at their strongest; they could halt a bullet in mid-air as soon as look at it.'

'So we’ve got no way of protecting ourselves?'

The Doctor shot Benton a sideways glance, a smile curling at his lips. 'Now, I never said that, did I?'

With a flourish, he reached inside his jacket and produced a dark brown medicine bottle. Twisting off the top, the Doctor shook out a handful of clear capsules which were filled with a fine brown powder.

'Sergeant,' he said. 'You and your men are to swallow these down.'

'What are they?' Benton asked, curious rather than suspicious.

'Iron supplements,' the Doctor replied, handing out the capsules to the men. 'The Sidhe have a universal loathing of iron; it is the one thing that’s guaranteed to harm them in any circumstance. An extra bit of iron in your systems should stop you falling for their glamour. You too, Captain Yates.'

'Why didn’t you mention these before?' Yates asked, as the Doctor dropped two capsules into his gloved hand.

The Doctor made an annoyed sound with his tongue. 'Mike, against an angry hoard of Sidhe these would have been like trying to extinguish a volcano with a water pistol! Besides, fairies are more inclined to use a glamour at close quarters, and only then with a small number of victims. Had they got through, I would’ve made sure you blew them and their Circle to Kingdom Come before they got that close.'

'I’d still feel safer with a gun,' Benton remarked, unscrewing the lid of his water bottle before swallowing down the capsules.

The Doctor shook his head and sighed.

'Really,' he quipped. 'You’re all just as bad as each other!'

***

The Queen held the white flame in her palm, dancing a hair’s-breadth from her skin but not burning her. He could feel the heat coming from it, though - eager to devour, but held in check by her will. A few members of the Court sat by, watching the demonstration idly. After a moment the Queen closed her hand and snuffed out the flame, then she turned to him.

_Do you know how it is done?_

He nodded, and she smiled, pleased.

_Good. Now it is your turn._

Obediently he raised his hand, palm upwards, and concentrated on summoning the fire. The air of the Mound was thick with raw energy, waiting to be converted into whatever was needed or desired; it was simply a case of focussing that energy, calling it to him and bending it to his will. Fire was just the beginning, the easiest form for energy to take. Once he had tamed it, the rest would follow quickly.

Though, to begin with, it was not quite so simple. His will was still weak, and it was a struggle to successfully draw energy only from his surroundings instead of from within. On his fifth attempt there was a spark; even to get that was a trial. But the Queen did not take her eyes from him. She was watching, expectant; such a paltry gesture was not achievement enough. He redoubled his efforts, reproducing the spark and attempting to make it catch. A time later a small, dirty-yellow flame flickered over his palm – little more than a common candle flame – winking out in a matter of seconds. The Queen’s eyes lit up with interest, though, and she nodded, encouraging him to try again.

He was sweating now, a dull ache in his mind as he pushed himself, feeding all his will into making the flame burn brighter. The flame struck again – hotter, brighter, cleaner – but he could not hold it and it his burnt his skin. He let out a hiss of pain and the flame winked out.

One of the Lordlings laughed.

 _Perhaps you expect too much of him, my lady,_ he drawled from the sidelines. _It may be beyond the skill of your new dog to learn old tricks!_

Anger flashed in his breast, and he glared at the Lordling, who was smiling smugly. The remark was impudent, he growled, and he would not countenance so insolent a tongue!

The Lordling laughed, but it was cut short into a scream as the offending tongue was transformed into a poisonous snake, turning to attack its owner. The Court cheered and applauded, delighted as the Lordling writhed on the floor in agony. It was a most fitting demise.

 _Excellent!_ The Queen laughed. _Oh, most excellent indeed! That is enough for now, my dearest. I can see my faith in you has not been misplaced._

For a moment he basked in the Queen’s obvious pleasure, but he was all-too relieved that she had dismissed him. Though instinctive, the feat had required much of his remaining strength, and he felt drained beyond measure. He would not disgrace himself by collapsing in the sight of the Court, though; at all costs he must keep his dignity. He bowed to the Queen, then turned on his heel and walked past the dying Lordling, whose lungs were rattling their last breath, without a second glance as he exited the chamber. None of them would dare cross him now; they knew that he could fight his own battles.

And he would not tolerate insolence. He never had.

***

'Right, Jo!' the Doctor called. 'Switch on!'

Jo flicked the switch on the machine, and the dials immediately sprang to life. There was a low, uncomfortable hum in the air which steadily rose in pitch until it disappeared into silence altogether. Yates and Jo exchanged glances. Nothing else seemed to have happened.

'Did it work?' Jo asked.

'Of course it did!' the Doctor replied. He pointed to the Circle of small white mushrooms, a ring roughly seven feet in diameter. 'We can go through now.'

'Oh,' Jo said, somewhat disappointed. On opening a gateway to another dimension she had hoped for something a bit more, well, dramatic – flashes of lightning, the Circle glowing. That sort of thing. 'Seems a bit of a let-down.'

'Look, Jo, it’s not supposed to be impressive,' the Doctor sighed. 'It’s just supposed to work, and it has! Alright, Sergeant Benton, I’ll go first, then you and your squad can follow me through. I’m not entirely sure what we’ll meet on the other side, so stay sharp – and be careful to step _over_ the mushrooms. If anyone treads on them, the Circle wil be broken, and then we’ll all be stuck!'

'Good luck, Doctor!' Jo called. 'Bring the Brigadier back safe for us!'

The Doctor flashed her a smile. 'Don’t worry, Jo. I will. And keep an eye on those dials! Make sure the energy flow remains steady.'

He turned to face the Circle, squared his shoulders, stepped forward over the ring boundary –

– and disappeared. The Circle was empty.

Benton blinked. The Doctor was gone. He hadn’t faded or stepped through a visible door; one moment he had simply been there, then the next he was not.

Glancing back over his shoulder, the sergeant saw the looks of uncertainty on the squad’s faces. They were brave men, each and every one of them seasoned troops who had served their queen and country before transferring to UNIT. They had faced countless horrors from Outer Space, monsters from beneath their feet, and even the Devil himself... but, at the end of it all, they were still men. Every now and then they needed to know someone was looking out for them – not a mate as such, though mates were bloody important – but someone who would do their best to see you safe home, no matter what. That, Benton thought as he straightened his beret, was what _he_ was there for.

Christ, he wished he had a gun…

'Right, lads,' he said firmly. 'Let’s go.'

And that was all it took. He stepped out towards the Circle, and he didn’t have to look to know they were following him. He only hoped that, this time, they would all follow him back.

Stepping over the boundary ring and into the Circle proper, the sergeant felt an odd sensation – as if he had stood still, but the rest of the world had somehow shifted sideways. It was a mildly disorientating feeling, and he blinked to clear his head, opening his eyes to find that he was no longer in Kansas.

'There you are,' the Doctor said. 'I was starting to worry.'

Benton looked around him in wonder. The rest of the squad appeared behind him a few seconds later, equally disorientated and equally speechless. They had been transported to what appeared to be a forest clearing, surrounded by trees that were taller, greener and more ancient than any Benton had seen before in his life. They were still stood in a fairy ring, but the mushrooms here were larger – about the size of dinner plates – conical in shape and a deep purple in colour. A thin dirt path led away from the Circle and into the trees. There were no other signs of life, not even birdsong.

'Is this where the Sidhe live?' Benton asked, turning back to the Doctor. 'In the forest?'

'Not quite,' the Doctor replied, scanning the treeline for himself. 'Sidhe live in a series of underground halls called Mounds, and it’s there we’ll find them. I imagine we’re not too far away; that path was once used very frequently. Shows how much their travels have been confined of late for it to get that overgrown.'

'So what now?' Cole asked.

The Doctor smiled, indicating where the track disappeared into the gloom of the trees.

'Why, we follow the path, of course! It’s bound to lead somewhere. Stay close behind me, stick to the path, and don’t lose sight of each other. If someone were to stray, I think it highly unlikely that we would be able to find them again. There’s also no telling what else we might run into apart from the Sidhe.'

'So long as it ain’t bloody gingerbread cottages,' Walsh said dejectedly. 'I ain’t going in no bloody gingerbread cottages.'

'You’ll go where you’re told to go, Walsh,' Benton warned. 'Even if it’s a castle made of sodding fairy cakes.'

The Doctor cleared his throat delicately.

'I hardly think it will come to that,' he said tactfully. 'Mounds are like barrows, made of earth and stone. We shan’t be in danger from any baked goods, I fancy. Shall we?'

'Bloody gingerbread cottages,' Walsh muttered under his breath, as they set off after the Doctor.

It was hard to tell what time of day it was, though something in the back of Benton’s mind supplied the word ‘afternoon’. Likewise it was impossible to tell how long they had been going. Time was moving differently here, the Doctor said, as they wound their way between the dense tree trunks. Benton could well believe it. Travelling through the forest the silence was eerie - no birds, no animals, not even the rustle of leaves in the wind. The only noises to be heard were their own footsteps, their breathing, and the short expletive Harris let slip when he caught his foot on a tree root.

An indeterminate series of moments later, the trees thinned out a little to reveal a steep hillside, into which was set a stone archway; two pillars, one black and one white, framed the gaping mouth of a dark tunnel. Instinctively, Benton knew that this must be what they were looking for, as a small, usually dormant part of the sergeant’s brain was insisting that the very last thing he wanted to do was go down that tunnel.

'You can feel it, can’t you?' the Doctor asked softly. Benton nodded his agreement, and there were grudging confirmations from the others. The Doctor hummed thoughtfully.

'Useful thing, race memory,' he mused. 'And it proves we’ve come to the right place. Let’s press on.'

'I don’t like it, sar’nt,' Harris muttered. 'It seems too easy. There’s not even a guard on the door.'

'We’re in the realm of the Sidhe,' the Doctor said, before further speculation could take place. 'In their eyes anyone who would think to attack them here are fools, and they have good reason to believe so. Besides, there’s more than one way to guard a door.'

'What does that make us, then?' Walsh whispered, and Benton didn’t bother to pick him up on it; the prospect wasn’t all that encouraging for any of them. Having come this far, though, there was no turning back. So into the Mound they went.

They stepped into the tunnel, and along the walls an avenue of torches sprang to life, illuminating the darkness ahead of them with a cold, white light. The floor was stone, sloping steadily downwards. Deeper and deeper into the earth they went, the temperature dropping as they walked along, their breath beginning to mist in the air above them.

Just as it seemed the passageway would continue on forever, they came to a pair of huge copper doors. Serpentine patterns flickered across the surface in the torchlight, making it seem like there were creatures swimming within the metal itself. They stopped, and for a moment the Doctor stood considering the doors thoughtfully. Then he shrugged.

'Well, here goes.'

He raised his fist to knock but, before he could do so, the doors swung in on themselves, revealing a circular, candlelit chamber, from which many tunnels led off in different directions.

And here were the guards.

Benton and the others tensed, ready to spring into action, but the Sidhe just regarded them with detached amusement. There were four of them in gleaming bronze armour, each of them nearly seven feet tall, and armed with spears. They were standing either side of a slightly shorter fairy; one which was neatly dressed in rich green velvet, its long black hair braided with gold, and standing with an air of patient expectation. Shorter though this fairy was, it was still taller than Benton. It walked up to the Doctor, and bowed.

_The Queen extends her welcome, good travellers. She awaits you in the Hall._

Benton turned his head sharply. The fairy had spoken, but at the same time it had not; the voice seemed to come from the air itself. Judging by the way the other men looked around in surprise, Benton deduced that they had all heard it.

'Then we must not keep her waiting,' the Doctor replied smoothly. The man did not seem at all ruffled by voices suddenly appearing in his head. 'Lead us on!'

Without another word the green Sidhe turned on his heel, and walked towards one of the tunnels leading off to the right. From the way the guards formed up either side of the small group, it was clear that they were to follow.

'Looks like we’re expected,' Jenkins muttered.

'Hardly surprising,' the Doctor commented. 'She probably knew the moment we stepped over the threshold. Still, it’s a promising start.'

'Is it?' Walsh asked, eyeing the incredibly keen edge of one of the spearheads.

'Certainly,' the Doctor replied. 'As I said, the Seelie Court is bound by a code of honour. Were we dealing with the Unseelie Court, we’d probably all be dead by now.'

Benton decided that, if he ever got out of this, he would have a word with his sister about not encouraging any potential nieces to believe in fairies.

This passageway was much shorter, though the sergeant spied a few more openings leading off either side, and the tunnel suddenly opened into a huge vaulted chamber full of music, noise and light. Seated around the Hall were a multitude of Sidhe; a great host of beautiful but cruel faces laughing and talking. The tables at which they sat bore what looked like a banquet; silver platters of fruits and roasted meats piled high, silver goblets brimming with rich red wine – and there, seated at the head of them, utterly unmistakable, was their Queen. Not a single one of the soldiers had seen her before, but they all knew her; her skin as pale and flawless as the falling snow, her lips the red of newly-spilt blood, and her crow-black hair coiled down her back to her feet, dressed with so many diamonds that her tresses gleamed like the night sky full of stars. A thin circlet of silver sat upon her high, smooth brow. She was both unearthly and devastating in her beauty; for her eyes alone, men would lay waste to empires.

But Benton only saw her for a moment. His gaze was drawn to the comparatively diminutive figure in dirty clothes reclining at her feet, his hand entwined with hers, his head cradled in her lap.

'Sir!' he whispered under his breath, and the Doctor placed a steadying hand on his shoulder.

'Easy, sergeant.'

It was the Brig alright, but for a moment Benton could scarcely believe the evidence of his own eyes. The man at the Queen’s feet was wearing the tattered remains of a Army uniform shirt and combat trousers – barefoot, short black hair dishevelled, a dark shadow of beard beginning to cover his jaw. Even on the rare occasions he was to be seen wearing civvies, Benton had never known Lethbridge-Stewart to look anything but immaculate. Even whilst policing an international peace conference on practically no sleep, even three sheets to the wind at the Christmas party, the Brigadier always seemed to somehow remain sharp and in control, both of himself and his appearance. This man was reclining with an almost feline ease, a tranquil expression on his face, his hazel eyes fixed on the Queen; open, but unseeing.

'What’s wrong with 'im?' Cole whispered.

'I don’t think he knows we’re here,' the Doctor murmured.

_Quite so, magician. And he will not; not unless I command it._

The Queen had spoken, and like the other Sidhe, her voice seemed to come from the air itself. A hush settled on the Hall as the rest of the Court turned their attention to the visitors. The Doctor stepped forward and made a courtly bow.

'Our greetings, madam,' he said. 'And our thanks for receiving us with such courtesy.'

_It is due to you. What brings you to my Halls?_

'I think you know,' the Doctor replied. He indicated the Brigadier. 'That man who sits with you there; we have come to negotiate his release.'

The Queen smirked, amused. _You make it sound as if he is a prisoner._

'And is that not what he is?'

_Not in the least. He is tribute due to me from the mortal realm, given freely and accepted into my service._

'That’s not true, and you know it!' the Doctor said crisply. 'You know very well that Hargreaves intended to cross over himself, not to gift you another. This man is not bound by any promise that may have been made to you.'

The Queen’s good humour vanished, and she wrinkled her nose in disgust.

 _Hargreaves was a fat, ugly fool,_ she said. _Not worthy of the favours he claimed for himself. I promised him power so that he would open the gate for us, and in return he thought he could appease me with scraps! When we were through, I would have made his death long for his presumption, and taken what I pleased!_

Benton couldn’t help but shudder. The hate and fire in her eyes, the power in her voice... There was no doubt that she should have what she wanted, that the universe would bend its will to give it to her. She deserved no less! How could anyone presume to dare less? The strength of her glamour left him gasping. Even with the extra iron in his system it was an effort to resist her, so Lord knew how bad it would have been without it!

The Queen shifted her gaze to him, and somehow Benton knew that she had guessed his thoughts, sensed his struggle. An expression of mild curiosity flashed momentarily in her eyes, but then it was gone.

 _So it should have been._ She said softly. _So it will be again. But enough for now; we are patient, and time means nothing to us. And, though denied this victory, I have my compensation._

She smiled wolfishly, her eyes locked with the sergeant’s as her hand slid down to rest on the Brigadier’s chest. The Brigadier shifted in response to her touch, a contented sigh escaping his lips, and Benton could not help but clench his fists in anger.

 _And I am pleased._ She continued, baiting him. _Fine of form and firm of limb, the son of an ancient bloodline loyal to its Crown, with the blood of another thousand staining his hands. Already he has begun to learn our Arts._ Her eyes glittered greedily. _Yes, I am most pleased with my prize. He will make an excellent addition to my Court._

'No, sar’nt!' Miller hissed in his ear, and Benton found that he and Cole were holding him back. He hadn’t realised that he had begun to move, that he had been within seconds of rushing forward and striking the Queen. And he wouldn’t have got three paces. The bitch. The absolute bitch.

'You had no right!' he growled.

 _A bargain was struck._ She said sternly. _He stepped into my realm in the place of another. He is mine to do with as I wish._

'And much good it has done him,' the Doctor said archly. 'Your pet doesn’t seem to be prospering in his new home. Looking a little on the lean side, isn’t he?'

A flicker of anger passed across the Queen’s face, almost too quick to see. Benton caught it, though; the Doctor had hit a nerve.

'Worrying, isn’t it?' the Time Lord continued. His voice suddenly became softer, more persuading. 'Let us take him back with us, Lady. Keeping him here will only kill him.'

The Queen’s eyes narrowed. _And what, magician, would you offer me in return? Another mortal to take his place?_

'No!' the Doctor said quickly, cutting off Benton’s answer before the sergeant could open his mouth. 'No, not that.'

_Then what?_

'My promise that you shall never see me again,' the Doctor replied simply. 'And, with that, the freedom to live in peace here in your realm.'

The Queen hissed, her pearl-white teeth sharp against her red lips.

 _A poor exchange indeed!_ She spat. _The "freedom" to remain chained to one plain of existance alone? Why would I ever accept such a paltry offer?_

'Because it is a good one,' the Doctor said sternly. 'Lady, the world will never be yours again as it once was. You’ve lost. Be content with the kingdom you have! Why keep this man here against his will?'

The Queen’s eyes glittered. She laughed. _Against his will? Who says it is so?_

A wave of laughter ran through the other Sidhe, and the Doctor looked disconcerted.

'But surely –' he began, but the Queen waved him to silence.

_You are mistaken if you think this man did not enter my service by his own agreement._

'That’s not true!' Benton bit out before he could stop himself. The Queen’s eyes fixed on him once more, and her smile widened.

 _You may hear it from his own lips, little man,_ she cooed. She turned her attention back to the Doctor. _Very well, I will wager with you, magician. Persuade my servant to leave here of his own free will, and you may take him; I shall not hinder you. If he does not agree, you will leave without him._

A moment passed in tense silence, then the Doctor nodded.

'Agreed,' he said.

'Doctor, no!' Benton moaned, but it was too late. The Queen turned to the Brigadier, and passed her hand over his eyes.

_My dearest, you have visitors._

***

Once again they were at table, and again he had taken nothing. He was ravenous now, his guts painfully empty, yet he could not bring himself to eat, no matter how much the Queen encouraged him. Every dish he touched he was greeted by visions of decay; bread thick with mould, fish and flesh alive with maggots, wine so soured it reeked like vinegar. He knew he must eat – his Queen wished him to eat – but try as he might his mind rebelled at the thought of such foulness passing his lips.

He lay again with his head upon the Queen’s knee, a dull lethargy settling heavily in his bones, but enjoying the absent caresses she bestowed upon him now and again. Then, quite suddenly, her hand stilled and she addressed him.

_My dearest, you have visitors._

He sat up, tearing his gaze away from her face only with a concerted effort. There were a group of men standing huddled together in the middle of the Hall, small and distant, as if he were seeing them from a long way away. They carried no weapons, and all save one were dressed in drab clothes the colour of moss. The one who was different – older, taller, and with a shock of white hair – wore a cloak of scarlet and ebony. The others were frightened, unnerved by their surroundings, but the old man stood firm and defiant.

'Brigadier.'

The voice was like a whip-crack in his head, and brought the small group into sharper focus. The old man had spoken, and he saw him clearer now. There was power in this creature – that much was obvious – with a link to things beyond the normal ken of mortal man. A magician, perhaps? Very likely. By the way the others unconsciously drew closer to him, they expected the old man to protect them. And only a magician would be fool enough to stand unbowed before the Queen.

The magician was looking at him, and it was undoubtedly himself that had been addressed – but ‘Brigadier’? What did that mean?

'I don’t know you,' he said bluntly. A wave of panic went through the small men, and they looked to the magician for reassurance. The magician, however, took no notice of them, his furrowed brow simply creasing further with frustration.

'Yes you do,' the magician insisted. 'And if you could get away from her long enough you would remember! You don’t belong here, Brigadier, and we have come to bring you home. Miss Grant has been worrying about you for days.'

Miss Grant? Home? The words meant nothing to him. He turned to the Queen, irritated.

'Must we tolerate this fool, Lady? He is not in the least amusing.'

 But the magician would not be silent.

'Lethbridge-Stewart, just listen to me for a moment! She’s agreed to let you go, but you must come of your own choice.' The magician held out his hand, inviting. 'All you need do is agree, and you can go free.'

What was the tiresome fellow on about? He regarded the outstretched hand disdainfully.

'Please, you need to trust me,' the magician repeated, his voice firm and clear. 'Fight her! Remember who you are!'

The plea rang from the walls, and fell into resounding silence as the Court waited in anticipation. He looked up, back to the magician’s face, and for the first time he noticed the stranger’s eyes. Though they belonged to a mortal, they were quite striking; grey as storm clouds, and within them was the power to summon thunder. Something tugged at his mind, some alien thought from beyond the Court, from before… now. He had seen those eyes before, he was sure of it, but where?

Yet, just as he thought he might remember, suddenly the magician’s expression softened, and the promise of strength turned to outright desperation.

'Please,' the magician begged.

The sudden change brought him back to the Hall. He sneered, insulted. It was revolting to see such a being grovel.

'Go,' he said bitterly. 'There is nothing here for you.'

Around them the Court erupted into shrieks of laughter, and the Queen’s voice rang high over them all.

 _My strong one!_ She crowed, clapping her hands with delight. _My true of heart! I knew you would not forsake me!_

'Alistair, no!' The magician cried, but he was all but drowned out in the uproar.

Victory flamed in the Queen’s eyes, and she seized him and kissed him fiercely. The Hall, the magician and the strangers fled from his mind as he beheld her in all her glory; and he was hers, completely. And so it would be forever.


	3. Chapter 3

The Hall vanished in a whirlwind of light and shrieking laughter. The next thing Benton was aware of was that he was lying flat on his back in the open air, his head pounding and his stomach feeling as if it had been turned inside-out. Righting himself, the sergeant could see the Doctor and the others recovering from a similar state, a couple of the men emitting soft groans as they tried to pick themselves up off the grass. They’d been deposited outside the entrance to the Mound – ejected, it would seem, instantly and without ceremony. The Doctor got unsteadily to his feet and dusted himself down.

'Well,' he said vaguely. 'That could have gone better.'

Benton’s stomach gave another lurch, but he successfully fought down the urge to void his breakfast. He still had the image of the Brigadier in his head; pale skin and dark eyes, eyes that were usually alive and warm, regarding him with a cold detachment. It had been a hollow expression; unseeing and uncaring, no spark of recognition whatsoever.

_'I don’t know you.'_

Benton shivered, despite himself. That expression had not been human.

'That wasn’t him,' Jenkins murmured, somewhere off to his left. He sounded just as rattled as Benton felt. 'Whoever it was in there, that wasn’t our Brig!'

'I’m afraid it was,' the Doctor said quietly. Benton shook his head, unable and unwilling to believe.

'No,' he said empathically. 'He’s not like that. He could never be like that.'

The Doctor met Benton’s gaze, his grey eyes hard as flint, and pointed to the entrance of the Mound.

'Sergeant Benton,' he said gravely. 'That man in there is Alistair Lethbridge-Stewart – or, more exactly, a version of him; stripped of his memories, his empathy, and with all his thoughts and virtues subject to an evil will. I should know, I’ve met the fellow before! Oh yes, she’s done her work very well; adding nothing, but taking away or corrupting everything that makes him human.'

Harris swore under his breath, wiping his hand across his forehead. Benton could see every one of them was shaken to the core.

'And that is the horror of the Sidhe, gentlemen,' the Doctor continued, taking a seat on a fallen tree trunk. 'Immortality and power, but at what price? To become less than a person, a crude parody of your former self, and to have the privilege to remain so forever.'

'Then why did you do it?' Cole asked suddenly, angrily. 'When you knew he’d been twisted good an’ proper, why’d you take the bet?'

The others, Benton included, each turned to look at the Doctor. Cole may not have been the most tactful of the squad, but he had expressed their feelings nonetheless, and all of them were waiting to hear what the Time Lord had to say for himself. The Doctor took in their expressions, one by one, and then he sighed, rubbing the back of his neck wearily.

'I thought it was worth the risk,' he said heavily. The soldiers stared at him in disbelief.

'Worth the risk?' Walsh repeated hoarsely.

'There was a strong chance that, given the opportunity to speak for himself, he would have been able to break free.' The Doctor at least had the decency to look penitent, even if he didn’t sound it. 'Being addressed by name, the sight of familiar faces or objects can often serve as a rallying point from which the brain can shake off conditioning. We’ve seen similar with the Master’s victims, and the Brigadier has one of the most resilient minds I've ever met. For a human, at least. But no, she’s had him for too long.'

Cole turned away, disgusted, not trusting himself to speak.

'So it’s too late,' Benton murmured, his heart sinking. Now the anger and adrenaline rush were leaving him, he simply felt drained. They’d lost. It had been so swift, so final; they’d barely even had the chance to _try_ … 'She’s won.'

The Doctor looked up from his perch, the expression in his grey eyes softening. 'Not necessarily, sergeant.'

Benton’s gaze instantly snapped back to the Doctor.

'How do you mean?' he demanded.

'Did you manage to get a good look at the Brigadier?'

'Yes, he looked awful!'

'Bloody half-dead, more like!' Cole spat.

'Exactly!' the Doctor said emphatically, his eyes suddenly alight. 'He’s starving. He can’t have eaten any of their food, which means that he won’t have ingested the genetic catalyst. Physically, the Brigadier is still very much human.'

There was roughly half a minute of silence as the significance of the Doctor’s statement sank in. Benton steadied his breathing, but didn’t dare to look anyone else in the eye. Inside, he was beginning to feel something dangerously close to hope.

'And mentally?' he asked cautiously. 'Do you think he’s still in there somewhere?'

'Buried deep, but yes,' the Doctor said firmly. 'That he’s avoided their food this long means that, at some level, his psyche is resisting, trying to protect itself. Most likely he doesn’t even know that’s what he’s doing.'

'But the Queen knows,' Benton said, catching the Doctor’s drift. 'I saw that look on her face. She knows that he’s still fighting her, which is why she gambled, hoping to frighten us off before we realised!'

'You have it exactly, my dear Benton! He’s hanging on, only just, but he’s not hers yet.'

'Sounds like our Brig,' Miller commented with a lop-sided grin. 'Diggin’ his heels in ‘til the last!'

'Yes, but the last, if I’m not mistaken, isn’t very far off,' the Doctor said, his brow creasing with fresh concern. 'We’ll have to move quickly. If we can get him away from here, sever his contact with the Queen, then I’m certain that I could repair most, if not all the damage to his mind.'

'But the bargain –' Cole began.

'– has been fulfilled!' the Doctor said shortly. 'We failed to persuade him, and we left the Mound without him, as per the agreement. Nobody said anything about us going back and removing him by force!'

And Benton found, against all his better judgement, that he was daring to hope.

People said plenty of things about the Brigadier, some of them not always complimentary, but not one of them would’ve dreamed of saying that he didn’t know his job. Lethbridge-Stewart was a good commanding officer; the best that Benton had ever served under, and what made the Brigadier a good CO as far as the sergeant was concerned was that he understood. Benton knew the Brigadier believed implicitly in what they were doing, knew the battles he had fought to make UNIT a reality, and knew better than most that every hour of every day Lethbridge-Stewart was fighting _someone_ to keep his taskforce in one piece – be it aliens, various world governments or, worst of all, the MOD.

The sergeant could not help but be reminded of the piece of paper he’d spotted on the Brigadier’s desk one morning about a month ago. He had brought up coffee and found the Brig had stepped out for a moment, so he had put the mug and plate of biscuits down and been about to leave when a small scrap of paper underneath a buff-coloured file had caught his eye. Not ordinarily one to pry, but curious nonetheless, Benton had picked it up to take a better look. The Brigadier had been doodling, it seemed; there was a rough sketch of a globe and wings, surrounded by various phrases in Latin – tried and most rejected it seemed, by the number of crossings-out – but one phrase had been underlined; _Monstruosos res superamus._ Though he’d had to look up the Latin later, Benton had immediately recognised the Brigadier’s sketch for what it was, and it had sparked a warm glow of fondness and pride in his chest.

He’d slid the paper back under the file and left. He’d not mentioned the doodle to anyone. It was private, something the Brigadier had jotted down in a spare moment whilst on a break, and not meant seriously; no one else had a right to know. But Benton had been happy to have seen it, and he had walked down the corridor back to the break room with his shoulders slightly straighter and his head held a little higher. The Brigadier understood. Lethbridge-Stewart believed in them, and Benton wasn’t sure anyone else would.

UNIT needed the Brigadier, and right now he needed them just as much, if not more. The sergeant set his jaw, and brought his eyes up to meet the Doctor’s.

'If there’s even the smallest chance,' he said firmly. 'Then we’re not leaving here without him. He’d do no less for us.'

The squad loudly voiced their agreement. Benton got to his feet, all traces of despair gone, once again the efficient and alert NCO.

'What’s the plan, Doc?'

The Doctor took in their eager and determined expressions, a smile breaking across his lined face.

'I think the best course of action is to return to the Circle and wait there until dusk,' he said. 'Give her time to think we’ve gone. And then, Sergeant Benton, we are going back into that Mound.'

'What about weapons?' Jenkins asked, taking it upon himself to play devil’s advocate. 'How’re we going to spring him if we can’t take out the guards? We left ours at HQ!'

'That’s not entirely true, Jenkins,' the Doctor said, fishing inside his jacket pocket. 'We have this.'

He took out the brown medicine bottle. Jenkins frowned.

'Iron?'

'Iron. Deadly to Sidhe if they come into contact with it. We can use it to overpower the guards, and then acquire their weapons. Believe me, Sidhe blades will be far more effective than any guns you could have brought from HQ.'

'So how do we get in?' Benton asked. 'When we went in before, you said the Queen knew we were there the moment we stepped through the arch. What’s to stop her, well, stopping us?'

'I can rig up the sonic screwdriver to temporarily mask our presence within the odic field,' the Doctor said. 'And simultaneously I can use the same function to trace the Brigadier’s bio-signature. Those tunnels will be extensive but, as the only other beings in that Mound are Sidhe, he should stick out like a blue Nyrgyn on Mawthas Day!'

Benton blinked. 'A what?'

'Nyrgyn. It’s a sub-species of Krych –'

'Never mind, Doc.'

And it was settled. The Brigadier was coming home with them, whether he liked it or not.

***

_You did well, my dearest._

It was later – by how much he did not know, nor did he care – and they lay together on her bed, limbs entwined, he running an appreciative hand over the warm, smooth skin of her flank.

That one, he said. The tall one with the white hair. He was a magician.

_Indeed, he was. What of it?_

He had felt for a moment as if he had known him once. The Queen’s eyes flickered briefly, and his hand stilled in surprise.

 _And why should you feel that?_ She demanded.

He studied her face carefully. She appeared now as she always did, but her eyes betrayed that he had not imagined her momentary lapse. The Queen was uncertain. The subject of the magician disturbed her, as did his recollection of the man.

He did not know, he said stiffly. So why did the lady not tell _him?_

She did not wish to tell him, he felt it, but she could not refuse him an answer. She sighed. _He was responsible for our recent defeat. He injured you greatly. I had hoped to spare you further pain._

He tried to recall, but there was nothing. He sat up, turning away from her, frustration gripping his heart. Why could he not remember this himself? Why was he left here, weak and without a name? She placed her hand gently to his cheek and drew him back to her, her touch and her gaze soothing, reassuring.

 _You are weak and forgetful, my darling, because you are still wounded. Until you recover from this sickness and eat, I cannot make you strong again._ She ran her other hand across his chest, brushing her fingertips over his ribs, and he shivered. Even he knew there ought to be more flesh between his bones.  _If you do not, you shall continue to decline, and I will be unable to save you._

Her words stung. Here he was, highest of the Court, favoured of the Queen… and yet his will was not strong enough to recover from the paltry injuries inflicted upon him by a mortal magician. A magician, yes; but a mortal nonetheless. He would let a few tricks of the mind rob him of his remaining strength? If that were the case, then he was indeed not fit to serve her - and that thought he could not bear to entertain.

He steeled himself with a breath. It was decided. When they were next at table he would take what he was given, no matter what foul illusions tried to prevent him. He would face the challenge, and he would conquer it. For his Queen.

She smiled. His shame and his resolution pleased her, and she kissed him gently, possessively.

 _And you shall be well, my dear one,_ she assured him. _Soon you will understand. Soon you will have your name. As Captain-General of my host you will assume your place at my side, and we shall retake the mortal realm. Together._

As she spoke, he could see it. Once he was restored to health and named he would be given new robes, the smiths would forge him armour and make a blade fit for his purpose. The Circles would re-open, the Queen would mount her war chariot, and together they would lead the Sidhe through. Bow, sword and spear would bite, fire would burn, and all would fall before their glory.

And the magician? He asked.

She smirked, her eyes bright with vengeance. _We shall teach him that an insult to the Seelie Court does not go unpunished._

The thought kindled a dark joy in his breast. _Yes._ Strip away that arrogance and pomposity, hound the fool until he had nowhere to run, break him until his life was no longer worth begging for!

That would be _fun_.

And he kissed her, surrendered himself to her, let himself fall to the onslaught of bliss. The stars burned overhead in their velvet darkness, and his voice was hoarse as he screamed his ecstasy, making love to the night itself.

***

So far it had gone well. Back at the Circle they’d distributed the iron amongst themselves whilst the Doctor had outlined his plan in detail. The odic field and the doors wouldn’t pose a problem – the doors were made of a semi-sentient metal, the Doctor had said, and would open to touch – but the trouble would be staying out of sight of any Sidhe. The fairies’ over-confidence would initially work in the intruders’ favour, but beyond that they’d simply have to play it by ear.

Dusk had fallen swiftly, and the squad had returned to the archway. Crossing the threshold, they had made it down the dark entranceway without a single torch lighting at their approach – an encouraging sign, indicating that the sonic screwdriver was indeed masking their presence. The copper doors, when they’d reached them, had opened to the Doctor’s touch and it had been but a moment’s work to take out the two astonished guards that had been loitering the other side. For all the Sidhe were naturally taller and burlier, they’d stood no chance against handkerchiefs full of iron dust being slapped over their noses and mouths, held resolutely in place until they asphyxiated. Stripping the bodies of anything that looked remotely dangerous (they’d dismissed the spears as being too unwieldy), the raiding party had followed the Doctor’s lead and advanced down one of the tunnels that headed off to the left. It had all been terribly efficient.

Now, as they crept deeper and deeper into the Mound, Benton was beginning to wonder how much longer their luck would hold out. So far they’d seen few other Sidhe, and those which they’d spotted they had been able to avoid or incapacitate easily enough. Judging by the sounds emanating from elsewhere in the Mound, they were moving away from the more populated areas. The set of tunnels they were in now had a far less utilitarian look; the walls were lined with beautifully-carved pillars, blue silk and silver tapestries hung here and there, candles sat in the niches instead of torches, interspersed with the odd statue... And all the while, the signal led them further on.

They twisted round the next bend in the corridor, and the Doctor raised a hand, signalling for them to halt.

'Wait.'

He darted forward, bending down, and picked up a piece of white rag from behind a pillar. He turned it over, examining it closely.

'Well,' he whispered, after a moment’s contemplation. 'We’re on the right track.'

'What is it?' Benton asked. The Doctor held up the item for his inspection, and Benton realised that he was looking at a pair of torn men's briefs. The sergeant frowned, confused.

'Underpants?' he queried.

'Underpants,' the Doctor confirmed. 'More specifically, the Brigadier’s underpants.'

There was a choked cough from Harris. Benton shot him a glare before turning to the Doctor.

'How do you know for certain they’re his?'

'Because the last time I checked, Sidhe didn’t wear much in the way of machine-knitted cotton,' the Doctor said archly. 'And they’ve got his name written in the waistband.'

'Ask a silly question,' Miller muttered.

'Come along,' the Doctor hissed, before Benton had the opportunity to rip the private a new one. 'It’s this way.'

Observing the still-increasing finery of their surroundings, the party had begun to suspect a while ago that they would not find the Brigadier locked away somewhere in a grimy cell. Things may be different in Fairyland but, in Benton’s considerable experience, gossamer curtains and well-upholstered furniture didn’t suggest much in the way of ‘prison’ to him. In fact, the lack of any lockable doors whatsoever was quite apparent.

'Where do you suppose we are?' he whispered.

'Somewhere in or very near the Queen’s private apartments, I’d wager,' the Doctor answered softly. The soldiers exchanged worried glances.

'Not very hot on security, are they?' Jenkins muttered.

'As I said,' the Doctor replied. 'Overconfidence. If no one can make it through the front door, why bother to guard the parlour?'

'Let’s just hope it stays that way!' Harris whispered.

And Benton really hoped it did; because, guards or not, he had no idea as to what they would do should they meet the Queen _before_ they located the Brigadier - and the sergeant somehow doubted that the hanky technique would work on her. They’d have to get near enough, for a start.

At the end of the corridor they came to an elaborate archway, either side of which were placed statues of fairy women. Again there was no door, but the room beyond was obscured by a set of heavy silk curtains. The Doctor halted before the archway, checked his sonic screwdriver, then pocketed it. Motioning for Benton and the others to keep silent and follow his lead, he cautiously pulled the curtains aside and ducked through.

The chamber beyond was darker than the corridor outside, and it took Benton’s vision a moment to adjust to the low light. Though sparsely furnished and lit by only a few candles, the room seemed designed for comfort, animal skins strewn across the rough stone floor to form a rudimentary carpet. The air was thick with the strangely sweet smell of incense, but despite the smoke catching the back of his throat he resisted the urge to cough. Taking pride of place was what seemed to be a bed or large couch draped with furs. This was formed, as far as Benton could tell, from the great twisted roots of trees that had forced their way down through the heart of the Mound, curling in upon one another before they pierced deeper into the stone of the floor. Lying prone on the bed, sleeping peacefully amongst the furs, was the Brigadier. What remained of his ruined uniform lay crumpled at the foot of the bed.

Benton swallowed. Even from the swiftest glance it was clear that the Brig was in a bad way; indeed, were it not for the visible rise and fall of his ribcage with every breath, Benton would have been convinced that they had arrived too late. Dark shadows had collected beneath the Brigadier’s eyes, his skin holding something of a sickly pallor. Around his shoulders and arms were rings of livid bruises, and his back was a mess of bloody scratches, some fresh, some older, crusted with dried blood and sweat. The flesh around the wounds was red, angry and infected.

The Doctor moved cautiously, creeping closer to make a more thorough examination. What he saw did not seem to comfort him, but he nodded to Benton and the others, indicating that they should get into position.

'Be ready to restrain him,' the Doctor warned in a whisper, as they joined him round the bed. 'We’ve no idea in what state his mind will be on waking, but it’s more than likely he’ll consider us hostile. Once his connection to the Queen is severed, we should be able to move him without resistance. Are you ready?'

Benton nodded. 'Ready.'

The Doctor knelt down next to the bed, bringing his face level with that of Lethbridge-Stewart. Grey eyes scanned the unconscious visage for any sign of recognition.

'Brigadier?'

***

She had gone from him now. She had told him to rest, as she had to attend to her Council; but later, if he wished it, they would ride out with the Hunt.

The darkness was cool and silent as he lay, warm and content, on her bed of furs. He drifted between dreams and wakefulness, safe in a cocoon of bliss, and the stars sang softly as they turned in the heavens.

Yet into their still song there crept a few jarring notes. Voices – not stellar, nor Sidhe – whispered in the dark just beyond his hearing. He stirred restlessly. Who would trespass here? They came closer now, whoever they were, their footsteps light on the stone floor, their breath heavy in the cold air. Certain now that this was no dream, he began to rouse himself towards wakefulness, when one of the voices sounded close to his ear.

'Brigadier?'

His eyes snapped open, and he was met by a gaze the colour of storm clouds. The magician! Outrage spurred him into action, and with a snarl he seized the man around the throat, intent on ripping the wind from his lungs. How dare he come back here? How _dare_ he? _How dare he?_

'Sergeant!' the magician croaked. 'Sergeant, now!'

At once he was set upon from all sides, many pairs of hands pulling him back from the magician, breaking his hold and attempting to pin his arms behind his back. He fought them; despite his injuries he was still stronger and faster, dealing with three of them in short order, but they regrouped swiftly and he was overwhelmed by numbers alone. Firmly in their grasp, they forced him to his knees.

'Hold him steady!' The magician had recovered his breath, and was shaking the contents of a dark glass bottle into one hand. 'Get his mouth open!'

Strong fingers twisted in his hair and pulled his head back, other hands endeavouring to prise open his jaws. He bit down hard, sinking his teeth into flesh and sinew, and was rewarded with a pained scream and the taste of blood. The men about him shouted and swore, horrified, but they did not let go, instead redoubling their efforts to subdue him. One clever soul thought to punch him in the guts, so causing him to release his victim, and they pressed home their advantage.

The magician acted quickly. The substance was forced into his mouth, and they pinched his nose so that he had no choice but to swallow or choke. He felt it go down his gullet – hard, smooth capsules that had no taste – and continued to struggle. He was just about to see if he might force them back up, when all at once his body was seized with a blinding, white-hot agony. Iron! The magician had poisoned him with iron!

Deep in his mind he felt the scream of rage as his link to the Queen snapped. The iron burnt through every fibre of his being, tearing him open and banishing the night. The stars cried in anguish as he was cast beyond their reach, fire raining down on him as he was scorched by the hot, dry winds of the Wilderness.

'Alistair! Wake up!'

A hard, sharp blow struck him across the face, and then there was nothing but ringing silence.


	4. Chapter 4

The first thing he was aware of was pain; dull, persistent pain that seemed to occupy every cell of his body. The next thing to register was fatigue. He felt groggy, disorientated; utterly drained and weak as a kitten, as if his muscles were made of elastic that had been over-stretched and perished.

'Sir?'

Slowly, Lethbridge-Stewart opened his eyes. Benton was standing over him, face pale and drawn beneath a layer of grime. The sergeant’s blue eyes were fixed on him intently, brimming with what could only be interpreted as a mixture of shock and concern.

'Benton?' The Brigadier asked hoarsely. His throat felt as if it had been scratched raw from the inside.

Benton’s face broke into a huge smile of relief.

'Yes, sir!' he said, a ragged laugh escaping his lips. 'Welcome back, sir!'

Hands which seemed to have been restraining him relaxed and let him go – which was possibly a mistake, as the Brigadier discovered that his limbs did not have the strength to support him. Fortunately, they caught him again before he hit the floor.

'Steady now!' the Doctor warned. 'Take it slowly.'

'Doctor?' He turned his head in the direction the voice had come from, and the Doctor’s face swam into focus.

'Yes, I’m here.' The Doctor smiled, placing a reassuring hand on his shoulder. 'And I’m more delighted than I can say to see _you_ again. Well done, old chap; I knew you wouldn’t go down without a fight.'

The comparative warmth of the Doctor’s hand against his bare skin caused the Brigadier to give a violent shiver. This brought to his attention that he was somewhere cold and dark, in the company of at least one of his men and, if he was not mistaken, completely naked. It was, indeed, the stuff of nightmares, only Lethbridge-Stewart had a very nasty feeling that this was all too real. Specific injuries were starting to register their presence too; the whole left side of his face throbbed, as if he’d been hit by something very solid, there was the familiar feel of deep bruising across his limbs and torso – a sensation he had experienced repeatedly in his long career – and his back felt as if it were on fire, burning and stinging at the same time.

Dear God, what was happening?

Another shiver wracked his frame. He closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath, battling down the wave of pain and panic threatening to overwhelm him. Cold, stale air filled his lungs.

'Where are we?' he asked. His voice sounded far calmer than he felt. Good. Ideally, he could keep it that way.

'We’re in the realm of the Sidhe, under their Mound,' the Doctor replied. 'You were taken prisoner, and we’re breaking you out.'

Prisoner. The Mound. Sidhe. It took Lethbridge-Stewart a moment to comprehend the connection between these words, the events of the past few days coming back to him in fragments. It was hard to remember. His head felt as if it had been stuffed with wool, thoughts and memories scratching at the edges of his mind to try and get his attention. The images were hazy, but if he concentrated…

A circle of tall standing stones; grey, weathered granite older than the hills. They had gone there because… because something dreadful was going to happen. Yes, an alien incursion. Fairies. Sidhe, they called themselves. Hargreaves and his ludicrous cult. A place name.

'Wootton Underhill,' he murmured. The Doctor nodded, encouragingly.

'That’s right,' he confirmed. Lethbridge-Stewart shivered again, once more calling to mind his physical state.

'And where are my clothes?' he asked, dreading the answer.

There was a pause, followed by a hastily whispered conference and some furtive shuffling amongst the men. He could not quite catch what they were saying, but the phrases ‘ruined’, ‘not mine’, and ‘don’t carry spares’ made it to his ears. The Doctor cleared his throat.

'Ah, yes. I’m afraid we can only find your trousers.' The hesitancy in his voice suggested to Lethbridge-Stewart that he’d best not enquire after the fate of his other garments. 'They’re not in the best of states, but they’ll do. Sergeant Benton, take a look outside and see if the coast is clear. Here, Brigadier, allow me.'

'What’s the last thing you remember?' the Doctor asked, once the moment of supreme awkwardness was past. Lethbridge-Stewart tried his best to piece together the disjointed memories into some coherent order. The Circle, the procession, the skirmish, a fugitive figure in velvet curtains…

'That chap, Hargreaves,' he replied, after a pause. 'He was heading for the Circle. I chased after him, tried to stop him. I caught him on the edge, but we overbalanced and…'

And they had fallen through. He remembered seeing Hargreaves break away from the fight. He remembered shouting at the fool to stop, even as he was already running to intercept him. He remembered putting on that last desperate burst of speed as his quarry neared the stones, leaping forward to close the distance in a beautifully-executed tackle of which his old games master would have been proud. But he had misjudged Hargreaves’ momentum, and instead of knocking them to the side they had ended up rolling to a halt about a yard inside the Circle boundary. After that, not much was clear. He remembered feeling vaguely nauseous, not unlike the sensation of sea-sickness… and then _she_ was there. He remembered kneeling before her as she reached out to him, the enchantment already taking hold, and Hargreaves shrieking furiously somewhere nearby.

_'No! No, not him! You said it’d be me! You promised it would be me!'_

Her.

The word closed around Lethbridge-Stewart’s heart like a cold fist, and it was only with great effort that he kept himself from losing his composure then and there. Her hand reached out to touch his face. He wanted to run, but could not move. She smiled as, with a kiss, she took his memories from him.

_Will you serve your Queen?_

'Alistair? Alistair, look at me.'

He started, brought back sharply to the present, and met the Doctor’s gaze. He gasped for breath, shocked to realise that he had been close to losing himself within his own thoughts. She was still there. She was coming for him.

'I remember,' he whispered. Try as he might, he couldn’t keep his voice from shaking. 'I remember it all. Doctor, I can see her!'

'All clear to the end of the corridor, Doc,' he heard Benton say.

The Doctor nodded in acknowledgement, slipping his hands under the Brigadier’s arms to help him up. 'Don’t worry about it, old chap,' he said soothingly. 'We’ll have you out of here in a jiffy.'

But Lethbridge-Stewart shook his head, gripping at the Doctor’s arms urgently; he had to make them see the danger!

'No, you don’t understand!' he insisted. He knew now, recognised that scratching sensation at the edges of his mind for what it was. 'She felt the link break, she knows something’s wrong! I can feel her, trying to find a way back into my head.'

The Doctor’s expression immediately switched from reassuring to grave.

'Doctor?' Benton queried, a worried look crossing his face.

'Alistair,' the Doctor said sternly, ignoring the sergeant. 'You have to keep her out. You’re free now, but you’re not safe until we get you beyond the Mound’s energy field. We’ll do the rest, but you _must_ hold her back. Can you do that?'

Lethbridge-Stewart swallowed, then nodded. 'I’ll try,' he said resolutely, a shade of his old authority returning to his voice.

The Doctor gave a small smile of encouragement.

'That’s all I’m asking,' he said. He turned to Benton. 'Alright, sergeant, let’s be on our way. Can you stand, Alistair? Miller, take his other arm. Now then, up you come!'

***

Their progress back along the tunnels was nowhere near as fast as Benton would have liked. They had left the Queen’s apartments and were heading as best they could back towards the entrance chamber. In the distance they could hear the sounds of commotion echoing through the tunnels; unearthly voices bellowing orders, accompanied by the rattle of armour. The screwdriver was supposedly still masking the squad’s trace, but the Doctor had admitted that it would only serve to delay the Sidhe. Whilst the Brig may have been freed of the Queen’s control, his mind was still somehow connected to the odic field inside the Mound – which meant that it was just a matter of time before she traced them.

Tightening his grip on his appropriated sword, Benton stole a hasty glance at the rest of the squad. There was Jenkins next to him, followed by Miller and the Doctor, who had charge of the Brigadier. Walsh came next, cradling his hastily bandaged hand, with Harris and Cole bringing up the rear. They had divvied up the remaining iron between them in order to make rudimentary dust bombs, the handkerchiefs once more coming into service as offensive weaponry. When (not _if_ , Benton told himself sternly) they ran into a sizeable force of Sidhe, the dust should cause enough initial damage for the men to get in close and finish up with their stolen blades. Necessity was the mother of invention, and all that.

Please, God, they didn’t run out of iron before they reached the doors.

Another twist in the corridor, and they were back in the more ordinary tunnels, white torches blazing away before them. Behind him the Brigadier stumbled, letting slip a soft moan of pain, and Benton heard the Doctor and Miller murmuring encouragement.

'Not far now, sir. Not far now.'

'Keep going, Alistair. That’s it, you’re doing splendidly.'

Though the Brigadier was doing his best, the man was suffering, and they were having to half-support, half-carry him along. That he had made it this far alone without losing consciousness was something of a miracle; it was almost impossible to believe that not long before it had taken all six of them to hold him down.

Benton winced at the memory. The Doctor had warned them to be on their guard, but the viciousness of the attack had stunned them all. Despite looking as if he were at Death’s door, the Brig had gone at them like a man possessed. Of course, everyone in UNIT knew for a fact that their CO was quite handy in a scrap – but the brutish strength, the guttural snarl, the mad, animal bloodlust that had been in his eyes when he had nearly bitten Walsh’s finger clean off… Benton had thought, after the audience in the Hall, that nothing about this business could get any worse. He had been wrong.

He supposed that was what had made him panic. John Benton could count on two hands the number of times he had ever honestly panicked in his life, and the events of the past half hour had definitely made it into the tally. When the iron had taken effect, when the Brig had gone rigid, as if he were having some sort of seizure, something in the sergeant’s head had just snapped.

_'Alistair! Wake up!'_

It was only as his palm had connected with the Brigadier’s cheek that Benton had realised that it was him who had shouted. For a moment he had stood aghast, not daring to believe it – to a degree he still didn’t believe it. He had struck a superior officer. He had called the Brigadier ‘Alistair’. Lord knew how long he would have stood frozen in shock had the convulsions not stopped, had the Brigadier’s eyes not opened, had they not fixed on him and shown recognition.

_'Benton?'_

And every instinct had told the sergeant that it was, indeed, the Brigadier. Christ, but his legs had near turned to jelly in relief!

Fresh shouts came from the tunnel ahead of them, and Benton gave the signal to halt. The echoes made it almost impossible to guess how far away the Sidhe were, but it was more than clear that the most direct route forward was blocked. Where now? To the left was a smaller side-tunnel. Logically, they should be able to loop round and bypass the enemy force, perhaps returning via one of the other passages that led off the entrance chamber. It was as good a chance as any.

'This way!'” Benton hissed.

They hurried down the side-tunnel. Benton had no idea whether they had succeeded in throwing off their pursuers, but they could not afford to wait and find out. They had to keep moving – keep going forward, keep the Brigadier safe – get out of this place and keep running until they couldn’t run any more. Hurry, don’t stop, keep going forward and don’t look behind… But wait, no. No, that couldn’t be it! Keep going, must keep going– No! No, something was wrong!

The sergeant stumbled, his head swimming as he fought against the urge in his brain to keep running. The floor seemed to tilt at forty-five degrees, his balance shot to hell, his feet slipping out from under him. A strong hand grabbed his shoulder to steady him.

'Sar’nt!' It was Jenkins. 'Sar’nt, you ok?'

'No!' Despite the disorientation, Benton shook his head emphatically. 'It’s a trick! We’re being herded!'

Before anyone could reply, a light, silvery peal of laughter floated out of the darkness ahead of them. It was a sound to freeze the blood.

'It’s too late,' the Doctor intoned.

The walls of the tunnel swirled into mist and vanished, a sudden flood of light dazzling their eyes. When Benton could bear to see again, he saw with horror that they were standing once more in the cavernous Hall, surrounded on all sides by the whole horde of fairies, armed to the teeth, laughing and shrieking with glee.

The Queen smirked.

_So glad you could join us, gentlemen. I was beginning to wonder if you would ever arrive._

***

They were trapped.

Lethbridge-Stewart had known something was wrong the moment they had stepped into the side-tunnel, but he had had no way of warning them. A wave of dizziness and fatigue had overtaken him, and by the time he had recovered his senses it was too late.

They were surrounded by rank upon rank of Sidhe, courtiers and guards alike, all watching their small squad with predatory expectation. The Queen was seated on her throne; a great white crystal structure which glowed with a faint luminescence – grown from a single particle of moonlight, a corner of Lethbridge-Stewart’s brain prompted, as if for some reason remembering the fact would improve matters. One of the guards, a captain of some sort, took a few steps towards them. Benton was there immediately, sword raised and poised to attack.

'You just come an’ try it, mate!' he snarled.

The idiot. The brave and loyal idiot.

The Queen raised her hand and the guard retreated obediently. She rose from the throne – tall, elegant and deadly – and regarded them with a condescending smile.

 _My congratulations to you, magician,_ she said, descending the steps of the dais. _It was a truly bold attempt, magnificent in its daring and ingenuity. Indeed, I was quite surprised by the iron, and the masking of your bio-signatures was a masterstroke. Most impressive._

'How very magnanimous of you,' the Doctor replied tersely. He glanced around at the rest of the Court, even now looking for a way out. 'And I suppose it was your intention to let us attempt a rescue all along?'

 _But of course. You are not the sort of creature to give in so easily; I was curious to see what you might do. As I said, most impressive._ Her eyes became hard, and the smile was now more cold than condescending. _The game is over, nonetheless, and your presence has ceased to amuse. As a commendation for your courage, I will grant you and your knights safe passage from my realm – once you have surrendered what is mine._

Lethbridge-Stewart felt the Doctor’s and Miller’s grip on his arms tighten at the same time, as the rest of the men instinctively took a step back into a protective huddle around him. Despite his condition, the Brigadier could not help but sigh in exasperation.

'Oh, for pity’s sake!' he growled. 'Just leave me and get yourselves out of here while you can!'

The soldiers looked at him as if he had just uttered a blasphemy - which, he realised after a moment, he just had. Benton gave him a thunderous look that reminded him horribly of his platoon sergeant at Sandhurst.

'We don’t leave anyone behind,' Benton said stiffly. 'Sir.'

Lethbridge-Stewart lowered his gaze, suitably chastened. Yes, he had deserved that. Had he been thinking straight he would never have said it.

From her position at the foot of the dais the Queen took another step closer, again addressing the Doctor.

 _Let me make it clear to you, magician,_ she said bluntly. _I have no interest in making bargains, and my patience only extends so far. For the final time, I offer you the mercy of the Seelie Court. Be assured you will not be so honoured again!_

'If it doesn’t extend to all, then it is certainly not a mercy,' the Doctor replied, with equal bluntness. 'And I return your offer in the manner it was delivered – with contempt!'

The Queen’s eyes flashed with anger, and the Sidhe guards began to advance.

'Grenades!' Benton bellowed, snatching the iron bomb in his belt and lobbing it at the closest Sidhe. The handkerchief hit the guard squarely in the face, the iron dust exploding into the air on impact, and she dropped to the ground, screaming and convulsing. The other Sidhe recoiled, hissing and spitting, as the rest of the men drew back their arms to deploy the remaining iron.

The Queen snapped her fingers.

With a cry of alarm, the Doctor pulled the Brigadier away from Miller, stumbling backwards and depositing them both in an undignified heap on the floor. They had moved, it seemed, only just in time. In the blink of an eye the UNIT soldiers were entirely encased in crystal; six grotesque statues frozen mid-motion, the iron clutched inert and useless in their rigid hands. The Queen surveyed her handiwork with satisfaction, then turned her attention to the Doctor. Her eyes glittered, and she bared her teeth in a sharp, feral grin.

 _And now, magician,_ she hissed, her voice low and menacing. _We have unfinished business._

'Stop.'

The Brigadier had spoken quietly, but the word had carried through the vast space of the Hall as if it had been barked across a parade ground. The Queen’s gaze snapped to him with surprise, as if she had forgotten that he could speak for himself. She probably had as well, he reflected bitterly, as the Doctor helped him to his feet; she had spent so long shaping his words for him.

'Stop. Please.' He licked his sore lips, his throat dry. He was wheezing from where the fall had jarred his bruised ribs. 'Let them go.'

The Queen smiled at him coyly. _I think not. They were adamant that they would not leave here without you; I merely ensured that would indeed be the case. Do you not find them much more pleasing as they are? Especially this one._ She tapped her fingertips across the crystal shape that had been Benton. _He presumed too much of his value to you, and of yours to him. His pathetic glances and incessant baying were tedious beyond measure!_

'Are they alive?' the Doctor asked hurriedly, as the Brigadier could only look on aghast.

 _After a fashion,_ the Queen answered, wrinkling her nose with disdain. _Enough to know their agony, and be aware of their fate._

'You didn’t have to,' Lethbridge-Stewart murmured, still staring numbly at what remained of his men. 'You could have banished them easily and prevented their return.'

_And allow their insolence to remain unpunished? Really, my dear, you know that I have never tolerated insolence – and neither have you._

The words struck a chord in his memory, and the image of a dying Lordling was conjured up before his mind’s eye. Aface contorted in terror as a poison tongue turned against its host, the wordless shrieks as the Sidhe writhed on the floor, and the deep satisfaction he had felt as he had stepped over the body, leaving his victim to choke on his own bile. Dear God, and it _had_ been him! He had made the decision to strike out, chosen the method of execution, cast the spell to make it happen… and he had not stopped to think twice about any of it.

'Alistair? Alistair, what is it? What’s wrong?'

The Doctor was shaking him gently by the shoulders, staring into his face with concern. But Lethbridge-Stewart could not bring himself to meet the Doctor’s gaze, turning horrified eyes instead to the Queen, who was watching him closely; a wicked smile on her blood-red lips, and a hungry glint in her eyes. She knew he remembered, knew he still felt the echo of the pleasure he had gained from the deed, and knew just how appalled he was at himself for feeling it.

 _You wished for your name,_ she said, her voice once more soft and teasing. _I have chosen it for you. It is a good name, a strong name; a name to command, and to be commanded. Would you hear it?_

'No!' Lethbridge-Stewart clapped his hands over his ears, for all the good it did him. A change in her focus, and then she was suddenly inside his head again, speaking directly to his mind. At this proximity, he could not hope to keep her out.

 _It can still be yours, my dearest one._ Her voice lilted through his brain, sweet and seductive. _The choice rests with you._

He was not her "dearest one", Lethbridge-Stewart snarled. She couldn’t know the meaning of the word "affection". He was never any dearer to her than any other possession!

 _But you are wrong._ He felt her reach out to him, try to draw his thoughts nearer to her, but he pushed back. He would not let himself be ensnared. _You know I cannot hide from you. Yes, you were to be my trophy, my prize, but that is no longer so. I have grown fond of you. You possess a strength of will that is rare in mortals, and I would have you make the most of your potential._  

How generous of her, he shot back. And there was he thinking she’d only wanted him as an instrument of securing her revenge. He felt his words sting her pride, felt her anger, and something resembling… regret?

 _You assign too little value to my favour,_ she hissed. _Do not presume to know what I wish! And do not pretend for a moment that you did not find everything I offered infinitely acceptable to you!_

'I’m sorry,' the Doctor’s voice ricocheted around the inside of the Brigadier’s skull. 'Is this a private telepathic conversation, or can anyone join in?'

The interruption distracted the Queen long enough to allow Lethbridge-Stewart to push her out of his head, and he found he was kneeling on the floor once again, the Doctor’s arm wrapped supportively around his shoulders. He gave his friend a weak smile.

'Impeccable timing as ever, Doctor,' he croaked. The Doctor’s mouth twitched at the corners in response.

 _Enough._ The Queen returned to the dais, taking her seat on the throne. Her power coalesced in the space around her like a summer storm. _There is no point in delay. There is no bargain I will accept. The magician will die, and you will pledge me your service or death. Accept your place in my Court; acknowledge your Queen._ Her eyes flashed dangerously. _Choose._

The Sidhe drew closer, tightening the ring around them. Still cradled in the Doctor’s arms, broken and exhausted, Lethbridge-Stewart knew that they had reached the end. No more negotiation, no more haggling, no more half-hopes for escape or rescue. There was only a choice, the soldier's choice, and there was no shying away from it; dishonour or death. His Queen, or his life.

His Queen.

Well, there was a thought. How could he have been so stupid as to forget? He let slip a low, dry chuckle, and he felt the Doctor tense in surprise. The Brigadier could sympathise; it sounded unhinged even to his ears, but he could not help it.

'Doctor,' he whispered. 'You promise me one thing; whatever happens, if you get the opportunity, you run.'

The Doctor hesitated, but the Brigadier waited patiently. Weak though he might be, the request had brokered no argument, and he knew that his old friend would not deny him this at least. Finally, he felt the Time Lord give an infinitesimal nod.

'I promise,' he murmured. Lethbridge-Stewart closed his eyes, breathing a sigh of relief.

'Thank you,' he said quietly.

There, that was done. The Brigadier opened his eyes once more, and turned his head to look at the Queen. Painful as it was to do so, he made sure that he met her eyes; his gaze steady and unblinking. He furnished her with a humourless smile.

'Very well,' he said stiffly. 'You win.'

The Sidhe laughed and cheered, but the Queen waved them immediately to silence. She leaned forward, gripping the arms of the throne, her sharp nails digging into the crystal. Her expression was exultant, her eyes alight with anticipation and greed.

 _Then say the words,_ she commanded.

He drew a deep breath, and began to speak.

'I, Alistair Gordon Lethbridge-Stewart, swear by Almighty God that I will be faithful and bear true allegiance to Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II, her Heirs and Successors –'

 _What are you doing?_ The Queen’s face crumpled into confusion, unable to comprehend the change of circumstance. Lethbridge-Stewart felt the Doctor squeeze his hand with glee, and he continued reciting the familiar words, firmly and earnestly, as he had once recited his childhood prayers.

'– and that I will as in duty bound honestly and faithfully defend Her Majesty, her Heirs and Successors, in Person, Crown and Dignity against all enemies –'

 _Be silent!_ Her face was a picture of rage, two livid spots of pink colouring her high cheek bones, like blood on snow. The Doctor’s grip tightened, and the Brigadier raised his voice, making sure that she heard every last syllable of his defiance.

'– and will observe and obey all orders of Her Majesty, her Heirs and Successors and of the Generals and Officers set over me!'

The Queen’s fury hit him with the force of a tidal wave. He was blinded, in darkness; lost and alone. The wind howled like a thousand tormented souls, strafing his body and tearing through his mind. How could he dare to call himself a man, to think he ever stood a chance against the unfathomable forces of the cosmos? A pitiful creature spawned of a pitiful race! He was nothing! Less than nothing! A tiny speck on an insignificant world full of hate, misery, and death. Conceit upon conceit, lie upon lie – what difference could one life even hope to make?

'Stop it!' He heard the Doctor shouting beyond the edge of the maelstrom. 'Stop it! You’re killing him!'

No! Why did he not run? He had promised to run!

He had failed his men, those poor fools who had trusted him, who had risked their lives for his worthless carcass. Benton, Harris, Jenkins, Walsh, Cole, Miller… they were dead, and for what? How many had he lost over the years because of his over-confidence, because of his mistakes? How many young lives had been snuffed-out before their time? He had arrogantly led them to the slaughter, only to survive himself and bring more to their doom. The world which they had died to protect would burn, and every human soul would burn with it. He could not save them. He could not even save himself.

No.

Not his men.

No one laid a hand on his men and didn’t pay for it.

Flames climbed high before his eyes, but they could not burn him. He seized the fire, grabbed it with both hands. It struggled and roared, tried to twist free of his grasp, but he was having none of it.

**_No._ **

He broke it, called it to order, took it to himself and it bowed to his will. He could feel its power course through his being, feel it sharpen his resolve, banish the pain and weariness. He rose to his feet; his skin crackling with energy, his blood screaming for battle.

He turned to face the Queen. He narrowed his eyes.

 ** _That, madam,_** he said. **_Is enough of that._**

***

**_No._ **

The cavern shook and the crystal around the soldiers shattered. Benton dropped to his knees, gasping like a fish out of water. All around him was chaos and confusion; a great roaring like thunder, the screams, hisses and shrieks of the Sidhe, bodies running in every direction. He had been smothered in stone, frozen in agony – unable to move, yet aware enough to know what had happened to the others – then just as suddenly they were free, and in the middle of a war zone.

'All go isn’t it, sergeant?' the Doctor shouted in his ear. 'I’d stay down if I were you!'

Benton dropped back to the floor from where he had been attempting to get up and turned, utterly dumbfounded, to the Doctor. The man was grinning like a lunatic.

'Doctor!' he choked. 'What the heck’s happening?'

'Oh, nothing much!' The Doctor laughed, a wicked gleam in his eye. 'The Brigadier’s just finally lost his temper! Look!'

Bewildered, Benton looked to where the Doctor was pointing on the far side of the Hall… and his eyes widened in astonishment. The Brigadier was on his feet, his whole figure wreathed in fierce, white flame that seemed to dance a hair’s-breadth from his skin. There was a murderous expression on his face, his eyes glowing like hot coals as he stood his ground facing the Sidhe. The air of the Mound thrummed with power.

**_That, madam, is enough of that._ **

The Queen recoiled as the force of his words knocked her throne from the dais, shattering into thousands of fragments as it hit the floor. Her expression was both incredulous and furious.

 _No!_ She gasped. Her voice was distant, as if she were in shock. _It’s not possible! How dare you even try?_

The rest of the UNIT troops had also come to the conclusion that the best course of action was to stay low, and had crawled across the floor to regroup on the Doctor and Benton’s position. Jenkins shot a disbelieving look over his shoulder at the Brigadier.

'What in hell –?'

'The odic field!' the Doctor chuckled. 'He’s taken control of the field!'

'Christ!' Cole choked. 'Could he always do that?'

'I think we’d have noticed!' Miller snapped.

Now that he had a frame of reference, Benton automatically began to make a mental assessment of the situation. Enemy Force: over fifty, Operational Force… He glanced at each of the men in turn, seeing what state they were in. Besides looking a little stunned and covered in crystal dust, they seemed fit enough for action. Operational Force: six, CO: compromised (i.e. high on alien energy), Cover: minimal to non-existent, Weapons: unknown.

'Who managed to keep hold of the iron?' he demanded. Five still-full handkerchiefs were produced. Benton smiled. 'Good lads. Get ready to give back-up. Maximum coverage needed with the iron, so pick your targets. Follow up close action with what blades you still have on you or can acquire in the confusion.'

The Doctor gave a pointed cough.

'Much as I hate to interrupt,' he said delicately. 'I don’t think you’ll need to go to the trouble.'

The Sidhe were rallying, but totally ignoring the little knot of soldiers huddled together on the floor. Archers came forward to form a defensive barrier between the Queen and the Brigadier. Benton felt the bottom drop out of his stomach. The Brig would be cut down in seconds! Yet no sooner had the bolts been loosed from the bows than they burst into flame, burning away to nothing mid-air. The warning that Benton had been about to shout died in his throat, and he lay there with his mouth hanging open in astonishment.

'Holy Mother!' Harris murmured.

And, bringing his hands together with the force of a thunderclap, the Brigadier set the fire on the Sidhe. It streamed through the cavern with a mighty roar, a relentless flood of flame within which Benton fancied he saw the shapes of great lions, claws and teeth eagerly ripping into the multitude of Sidhe. The stones of the Hall blistered with heat as the fairies were reduced to nothing but ash, their cries of terror chilling and short. It was awesome, awful and singularly terrifying to watch. With an inhuman screech the Queen raised her arms, shielding herself from the flames as they slammed against the barrier of her will, roiling and seething, anxious to devour, but held at bay.

'We’ve got to help him!' Benton yelled, fighting to make himself heard over the cacophony.

The Doctor raised his eyebrows. 'I think he’s doing fairly well by himself, don’t you?' he asked and, much as the sergeant hated to admit it, he was right.

The Brigadier took a step forward, gritting his teeth and pushing with all his might against her power. The Queen stumbled, was forced a step backwards, and then another. She was breathing heavily, her composure gone, snarling like a wild beast as she could only hold the flames at bay. Clearly gaining the advantage, the Brigadier took another step forward, then another. The fire burnt hotter, brighter, fiercer, and the Queen let loose a scream of outrage as she could only retreat. Her eyes locked with the Brigadier’s, every ounce of poison and hate she had left within her directed exclusively at him. With her remaining strength, she uttered one word.

_Bleydh._

Then she let the flames engulf her.

The fire collapsed in on itself slowly, retreating and dimming as the flames shrank back to surround the Brigadier once again, flickering tamely over his skin. Getting to their feet, the soldiers gazed around the dark, empty cavern in stunned silence, the only light available now being that which surrounded Lethbridge-Stewart.

'Where’d she go?' Benton asked, his voice echoing eerily from the walls.

'Away,' the Doctor replied simply. 'Ousted from her source of power.'

**_Doctor._ **

They turned, startled by the voice that seemed to come from the stones themselves; familiar, yet sufficiently alien to be unsettling. The Brigadier stood facing them, his eyes still glowing, his face expressionless, the outline of his form just visible beneath the flames.

'Yes, Alistair,' the Doctor said gently. 'I’m here.'

**_Please, I… I can’t…_ **

The voice became strained, and Benton realised what must be happening. With the Queen gone and the Sidhe destroyed, the Brig had nowhere to direct the power of the energy field, and it was beginning to overwhelm him.

'It’s alright now,' the Doctor continued soothingly. 'It’s over. You can let go.'

**_Can’t…_ **

Holding out his hands, the Doctor crossed to the figure wreathed in flame.

'Just concentrate. Listen to my voice. Step forward and take my hands; leave the fire to burn where it stands. Without you to anchor it, it will dissipate of its own accord.'

For a moment there was no response, and Benton worried that the Brig may not have heard. Then the figure slowly raised its arms, reaching for the Doctor’s outstretched hands. The Doctor closed his fingers lightly around the blazing wrists, not even flinching as the fire danced around his grip.

'Now, counting down from three,' he said firmly, his grey eyes fixed steadily on the Brigadier’s. 'Step forward and leave the fire behind. Ready? Three… two… one.'

The Doctor stepped back and the Brigadier moved with him, stepping out of the fire with no more difficultly than walking through a door. He seemed like a man sleepwalking, letting himself be led for a few more paces before his eyes rolled shut, the Doctor catching him gently as he fell. The fire flickered for a moment and then it winked out completely, plunging the Hall into pitch blackness. A few seconds later there was the click of a switch, followed by a sudden burst of straw-coloured light as the Doctor held up an electric torch. He had lowered the Brigadier’s limp body to the floor, and was crouched over him with two fingers against his neck, feeling for the pulse-point. Benton and the others hurried over.

'How is he?'

'Rest easy, sergeant; he’s alive,' the Doctor reassured him good-humouredly. He raised the Brigadier’s eyelids one at a time and shone the torch at his pupils – his reassuringly human pupils – before placing a hand to his forehead as if checking for a fever. 'He’s out cold; drained physically and mentally, but he’s stable for now and in one piece. It’s safe to bring him back to HQ.'

'Will he be alright?' Benton could not keep all his anxiety out of his voice.

The Doctor cast him a fond look. 'He will, if people stop asking questions and get a move on,' he retorted, though not unkindly. 'Hanging about in this cold, desolate place isn’t going to do him any good, that’s for sure! Sergeant, I suggest you carry him; you’re likely the strongest. Once we’re out of here we should reach the Circle very quickly.'

The Doctor waited as Benton knelt down and slung the Brigadier over his shoulders in a fireman’s lift, before taking up the lead and heading for the main tunnel out of the Mound. Though the Brig was never the lightest of men, Benton fancied the weight more reassuring than a burden, and as they walked he found himself listening in to the Brigadier’s soft, steady breathing. They were all of them bruised and battered – some more than others – and there was still a way to go before they were safely back in their own world; but that didn’t matter. Everything would be alright.

And for once, they were _all_ going home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The oath Lethbridge-Stewart recites is the standard Oath of Allegiance, which is sworn by anyone on joining the British Armed Forces. The words I use here come from the current version, and I imagine there would not have been much of a change between now and the 50s when the Brig joined up.
> 
> However, I may at some point in the future be proved wrong, so my apologies in advance if this is ever the case.


	5. Chapter 5

Lethbridge-Stewart strolled at a leisurely pace along the path, his footsteps echoing softly from the bare trees either side of him. A grey mist swirled across the ground, shifting as he stepped through it, closing up again as soon as he had passed. There was no wind in the forest; the air was still and heavy, and he heard no sound save the soft crunch of dead leaves beneath his feet. Over his right arm he held a shotgun, broken open.

Strange. Why would he ever go shooting in his Twos?

The sky, or what he could see of it between the branches overhead, was an ominous blanket of grey, a dull gold tinge just above the horizon betraying the presence of the late afternoon sun. As he walked he let his mind wander over recent events, trying to ground himself in what was actually going on. He’d managed to escape the Queen and the Mound; that much he was sure about. With the help of the Doctor he’d turned the Queen’s strength against her, and afterwards they’d denied the Mound a new Presence to anchor its energies. But the Doctor was no longer here. The Brigadier knew he was still a long way from HQ, and there were only a few hours of light left before nightfall. Ordinarily he wouldn’t have doubted his ability to find his way in the dark, and yet…

He was not alone out here. It had taken a while to make certain, but something was definitely following him. With his thumb the Brigadier surreptitiously felt the open breach of the gun, checking for cartridges. Yes, there were two loaded, and a quick search in his opposite pocket revealed six more. Whether they would prove to be of any use remained to be seen.

Pretending he hadn’t noticed the creature in the shadows, Lethbridge-Stewart walked on.

***

'So where is the Queen now?' Jo asked.

'Gone, but not quite gone,' the Doctor said, hanging his velvet jacket over the back of the chair and rolling up his shirtsleeves. 'Diminished in power and significance. Trapped once more in her realm, where she can harm neither us nor anyone else!'

The question of hospital had been raised and dismissed, the Doctor insisting that it would be far safer for all concerned to keep the Brigadier in the infirmary. His physical wounds, though numerous, were not severe and would be simple enough to treat anywhere – but care of the Brigadier’s mind was something the Doctor refused to trust to anyone else.

The MO had seen to Walsh’s hand as soon as they’d got back. The man had been lucky; though the bite had gone deep, it was almost certain that he would recover most of the mobility in that finger. A few stitches, a course of antibiotics and painkillers, and he had been assigned light duties for a fortnight. On the whole, Walsh was more amused by his war wound than anything else.

'Can’t say the Brig’s bark is worse than his bite now, can we, sir?' he had joked, grinning as he had displayed his heavily bandaged hand for Yates’ inspection. The captain knew that one would be doing the rounds of the base for months.

The Doctor had seated himself at the Brigadier’s bedside, and Jo was leaning over his shoulder. Yates and Benton were stood at the foot of the bed, trying their best not to appear too concerned or out of place, yet knowing they were failing miserably at both. Dr Swanson had, of course, complained at having so many bodies cluttering up his infirmary, but he hadn’t really had the heart to insist they wait outside. Thus, token protest issued, the MO had retreated to his desk, content to act in a supervisory role whilst the Doctor ‘did his stuff’.

Benton regarded the comatose figure sombrely. Cleaned up and dressed in a pair of his own pyjamas, the Brigadier was looking much more himself again, for all his jaw was still sporting the mess of beard. The sergeant made a mental note to do something about that later. The Brigadier’s skin had lost most of that sickly pallor, thank God, having been hooked-up to an IV for a few hours already – yet, in contrast to the half-light and moonshine of Fairyland, the light of the real world and backdrop of a stark hospital bed made the bruising and the deep shadows beneath his eyes appear more livid than before.

'What is it you’re going to do?' Yates asked of the Doctor, genuinely curious. Benton switched his attention back to the Doctor, who at the query had glanced up from his perusal of the Brigadier’s medical notes.

'Firstly, I have to find out the extent of the damage,' he said. 'Before we left the Mound I was able to isolate his consciousness from the rest of his mind – tucked him out of harm’s way, so to speak. This way I can work around him, repairing what I need to without being unnecessarily invasive.  The poor fellow’s been through more than enough already without me disturbing him any further!'

'How long do you think it will take?' Jo asked. The Doctor rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

'Anything from a few hours to a couple of days,' he admitted. 'It all really depends on what I find. Now then…'

Placing the clipboard on the bedside cabinet, the Doctor moved his chair closer to the bed. Gently, almost reverentially, he touched his fingertips to the Brigadier’s temples and closed his eyes.

***

There had been less daylight left than he’d thought. Night came on far quicker than he had expected, and it was almost dark when Lethbridge-Stewart stopped to take his bearings. The stars were out above his head, the sun now little more than a dull green glow behind the hill, but the bright patterns in the sky were unknown to him - and Lethbridge-Stewart was familiar with the constellations of both the northern and southern hemispheres. The implication was disturbing, but could no longer be ignored; he was nowhere on Earth. Was it possible, perhaps, that he was still in Fairyland? Yet he had been so sure he had escaped, that he had left the influence of that foul place far behind him! If not Earth or Fairy, though, where could he be?

The instinctive answer that presented itself to the Brigadier was hardly preferable to Fairy. The place seemed to be lacking a bit in fire and brimstone though, if it were the case, but then what were his preconceptions in the face of Eternity? Unimaginable horrors were exactly that; unimaginable. Terror came to all men in many different guises.

Speaking of which…

Out there, in the shadows, the creature was still following him. He could not see it clearly; a dark, lean shape with one glowing eye, prowling the edges of his vision, haunting the treeline but keeping pace. It had closed the gap between them to just a few yards, abandoning subtlety in favour of staying on his heels. Lethbridge-Stewart considered his options which, admittedly, were very few. Running was out of the question; whatever it was moved on all fours, and would doubtless overtake him in no time at all. Another option, and his preferred choice, would be to shoot it outright and investigate after it was dead. As soon as the thought crossed his mind, though, the Brigadier could imagine the Doctor scowling at him in disapproval – and, under the circumstances, Lethbridge-Stewart had to admit that it would be a damn fool thing to do. He was in unknown terrain, alone, without supplies or back-up, and with limited ammunition. So far there was no indication that the creature was actually hostile, though every one of the Brigadier’s senses was insisting that there was something distinctly malign about it. It had made no move to attack him, just to observe; shooting at it may only madden it, even if it didn’t prove to be impervious to bullets. There was no telling if this creature was the only one of its kind, either.

There was one other course of action. The creature, whatever it was, showed signs of intelligence – the ability to plan, to watch, wait and react – so there was every possibility that he might be able to communicate with it in some way. At the very least he could determine whether it was hostile or not, and at the best he might be able to glean some information as to where he might be and how to get home. Damn it, the Doctor really must be rubbing off on him.

Steeling himself for the worst, Lethbridge-Stewart turned to face the creature. It was about ten yards away, standing perfectly still and watching him intently. In for a penny…

'Identify yourself!' the Brigadier called out, subtly making ready to snap the gun barrels in place at a moment’s notice.

The creature continued to watch him, still and silent, its one eye glowing dim in the darkness. Though he could not be sure how, Lethbridge-Stewart knew that the beast had not only heard him but understood him, and was now carefully considering its answer. After what seemed like an age a low, rumbling sound issued from the creature’s throat. In a guttural, but horribly familiar voice It growled out its response.

_I am your name._

***

The Doctor sat perfectly motionless over the Brigadier, his expression one of supreme calm as Jo, Benton, Yates and Dr Swanson looked on in silence.

After about a minute, when nothing else appeared to be happening, the first three exchanged glances. It was clear to Benton that they were each wondering the same thing; should they still be there or not? The Doctor hadn’t sent them away before he began, so there couldn’t be any harm in their presence – but, by the same token, they hadn’t been given any indication as to how long this ‘initial assessment’ might take. Standing around like a spare part didn’t sit well with any of them, and it was beginning to show.

Another minute passed, in which the atmosphere between the spectators grew increasingly awkward. They had started casting unsure glances at Swanson at his desk – who could only shrug his shoulders in response – when the Doctor’s brow suddenly furrowed. He winced, as if in pain.

'Doctor?' Jo asked, daring to break the silence. There was no reply, save the deepening of that frown. Benton turned worried eyes to Yates, and the captain motioned to Dr Swanson, indicating that he should join them by the bed.

'Doctor?' Jo asked again, louder this time. 'Doctor, what’s the matter?'

Finally, the Doctor opened his eyes. He lifted his hands from the Brigadier’s temples, his expression ominous. Turning in his seat, his stormy grey eyes met those of Captain Yates.

'Mike,' he said urgently. 'I need you to contact the guardroom. Have men posted outside the infirmary door, and beneath the fire escape outside. No one is to come in or out of here without express permission from myself or Dr Swanson.'

'Is something wrong?' Swanson enquired as Yates, perceiving the gravity of the Doctor’s request, immediately crossed over to the desk and picked up the phone, asking for the duty officer.

'Very wrong,' the Doctor said darkly. 'Very wrong indeed. The Brigadier’s not alone.'

'I'm sorry?'

'There’s an alien element or consciousness occupying a part of his brain, and its intentions are far from benign.'

'Is it the Queen?' Benton’s voice held a note of alarm.

'No, not the Queen,' the Doctor said. 'Though I’m certain that this is her doing. Something, or some _one_ , is making its way through his mind like a virus, seeking out his consciousness and infecting the surrounding areas as it goes.'

'But how did it get there?' Benton demanded.

'That's what I don't understand,' the Doctor confessed, rubbing his chin distractedly. 'I made absolutely sure his mind was clear before I induced the coma - I wouldn't have done so otherwise!'

'Could it have been something she planned in advance?' Yates suggested, returned from his phone call. Outside in the corridor there was already the clatter of assault boots as the requested security detail took up their positions. 'A sort of Trojan horse that would only activate when he got back to this world?'

'I think that may be the case,' the Doctor agreed grimly. 'If only I can discover what exactly it is, I may be able to isolate and eject it before it does any permanent damage.'

'That word!' Benton exclaimed, thinking back to their last moments in the Mound, before the Queen had vanished. He turned to the Doctor, blue eyes wide. 'You remember, Doc? Just before she disappeared, she said a word to him – "blithe", or something like it. Could it have been a spell?'

' _Bleydh_ ,' the Doctor muttered. 'Yes, sergeant, but not a spell I think; possibly more like a word of power.'

'Is there a difference?' Yates asked.

'Certainly,' the Doctor said breezily, but no further explanation seemed forthcoming. Jo wasn't going to let him get away with that, though.

'But I don't get it,' she protested. 'How can her saying a word to him result in this, this mind-parasite thing? And if you all heard it, how come you're not infected? Or me, come to think of it, now that you've said it!'

'Words have a power of their own, Jo,' the Doctor said ruefully. 'Any child who's been called names on a playground could tell you that! The Queen took it one step further, though. By focussing her energy through the word, she imbued the word itself with power. When the intended victim hears the word, the Queen's power is passed on and has a way to affect them.'

'So,' Jo reasoned, after taking a moment to untangle the Doctor's explanation. 'It's basically a curse that travelled by sound?'

'In its simplest form, yes - but the word chosen is significant too. The meaning of the word will determine its victim and purpose, and how and when that purpose is carried out.'

'Like a computer programme!'

'Correct.' The Doctor furnished Jo with a brief smile. 'All we need to do is figure out what word she used. Now, going by the location of the stones and the accepted folklore surrounding these particular Sidhe, I’d say she was using one of the ancient languages of these isles. Let me see, let me see… Of all the times I could have used the TARDIS’ telepathic circuits!'

'Irish, you suppose?' Yates suggested.

'Or Welsh?' Swanson offered, feeling as if he ought to contribute something to the conversation.

'Related to Welsh, I think,' the Doctor agreed. 'There’s a similarity in the mutation of the vowels. Ah yes, I have it! Cornish! Oh. Oh dear.'

'Why "oh dear"?' Jo frowned. The Doctor was suddenly looking worried again.

'"Bleydh" is the Cornish word for "wolf",' the Doctor said.

'And that’s bad?'

'Terribly so,' the Doctor murmured uneasily, his eyes scanning the Brigadier’s sleeping form once again. 'I think I’m beginning to understand what happened. When she realised she’d lost, the Queen must have used the last of her power to send the word into his mind.'

'But what would be the good of that if she'd lost?' Benton demanded.

'Revenge, I suspect,' the Doctor said bitterly. 'Remember what I told you about the Sidhe and pointless acts of cruelty, sergeant? She knew that once we got the Brigadier back here we’d let our guard down, and so it lay in wait, only emerging to prey on his consciousness now he is at his most vulnerable. The thought of a secret poison slowly killing him when we thought we had won would doubtless have appealed to her enormously.'

'But that’s horrible!' Jo exclaimed, appalled.

The Doctor nodded. 'Yes, isn’t it just?'

'But why did you call for sentries?' Yates asked, puzzled. 'You said yourself, the Queen’s gone. Surely we’re not in danger of an attack now?'

'Not from the outside,' the Doctor said darkly, his gaze still locked on the Brigadier. Seconds later, Benton realised with a shock what the Doctor was implying.

'No!' he exclaimed. 'Doctor, she can’t!'

'Can’t what?' Yates demanded.

'Take him over again!' Jo gasped, understanding dawning. 'Oh no, Doctor, surely she can’t!'

'I imagine that was the other part of her purpose all along,' the Doctor said gravely. 'As I said, the Queen will be back – not for a long time, but she will. All her followers were destroyed in the firestorm beneath the Mound, but if she could make sure that she would have even _one_ member of her Court to prepare the way for her…'

The Doctor let the sentence hang; he didn’t need to complete it. Yates took a step closer to the bed.

'Doctor,' he said softly. ' _Can_ you help him?'

The Doctor turned to face them, meeting each of their gazes one by one. He nodded.

'Yes,' he said firmly. 'However, it’s going to be dangerous – both for me and for him. And even in expelling the alien element, there’s no guarantee that he’ll make a full recovery. There’s a risk that the extra strain on an already damaged mind will prove fatal.'

'But you’re going to try,' Benton said. His tone did not suggest that it had been a question. The Doctor nodded in confirmation.

'Yes, sergeant,' he said calmly. 'I’m going to try. There’s nothing else for it.'

'Then tell us what we can do to help,' Dr Swanson said, practical and professional as ever. 'If there is anything we can do?'

'Not much, I’m afraid, old chap,' the Doctor said. 'Just make sure that he’s comfortable, and keep all but essential personnel out of the medical wing. I’m going to need peace and quiet if I stand any chance of defeating this thing.'

As Benton followed Yates out of the Infirmary to start making arrangements, the sergeant glanced back to see the Doctor hunched over the Brigadier once more, shaking his head in despair.

'Oh Alistair,' he heard him sigh. 'Why do you always have to make everything so difficult?'

***

Lethbridge-Stewart recoiled, taking a step back and snapping the shotgun together, understanding now exactly what he was facing. _Bleydh._ Wolf. So this was the name the Queen had planned for him! She had chosen well; all his strength, determination and intellect would've been left intact, allowing him a degree of autonomy - yet he would have been bound to her will like a trained hound. It was a neat move, he had to admit. In her last moments she had sent this abomination after him; let him think he had escaped, only to follow up with a second strike.

Lethbridge-Stewart narrowed his eyes, squaring up to his pursuer. He felt its power, felt its hunger, felt it drawn to him and he to it.

'What do you want of me?' he asked briskly. This time the creature did not hesitate in answering him.

 _I only want what you want,_ It said simply, and Lethbridge-Stewart could not help but shudder. It was speaking with his voice; somewhat lower and gruffer, but still undeniably his own.

'Somehow I doubt that,' he bit back tersely. Around them the grey mist was rising, swirling and thickening into something more resembling fog.

The creature gave a low chuckle, the sound of which rumbled around the landscape like distant thunder.

 _I am_ your _name,_ It said, taking a few sauntering steps on silent paws. _I am created from what you might've been, and what you could still become. I can only want what you desire._

'And right now I "desire" to be back at UNIT HQ, writing up my report and drinking a mug of Benton’s coffee,' Lethbridge-Stewart said archly. The fog was closing in, beginning to block out the stars above. The bare trees were becoming little more than silhouettes in the gloom. 'Preferably accompanied by a chocolate digestive, if Yates has left any in the tin. So, by all means, you lead the way and I’ll follow!'

The creature stopped pacing, and furnished him with a leer.

 _You even believe that to be true, don't you?_ It said mockingly.

Lethbridge-Stewart had already opened his mouth to object, but his voice died in his throat. Something in It's words had struck a chord, though why they should he could not place.

'What do you mean?'

The creature smirked, and continued to prowl along the edge of the trees. It moved unhurriedly, casually even, but that one glowing eye remained constantly fixed on him.

 _Pitiful, really. You don't know yourself half as well as you think you do. I, on the other hand..._ It chuckled. Its dark, lithe body churned up the mist as it circled round him. _I know you better than you'd care to admit. Falsehood has become second nature to you,_ _Brigadier_. _All you life you've deceived and dissembled to keep oh so many secrets._

'If you count the need to keep the Official Secrets Act as "lying", I suppose so,' Lethbridge-Stewart said stiffly, but It shook its head.

 _And even now you fail to understand._ It laughed. _Your greatest lies are the ones you tell yourself; the ones you believe without question. It's sad, really. All this effort, all these sacrifices, all the pain and the deaths you have caused over the years so that you might do your duty -_ The creature's eye flashed menacingly, and it growled. _\- when you never wished for that duty in the first place!_

The words hit Lethbridge-Stewart with an almost physical force, a cold shiver running down his spine. It knew. It knew, and he had allowed himself to ignore it. The creature laughed its growling laugh again, the air once more rumbling with the threat of thunder.

 _Now you see. Now you understand. You never wanted to be a soldier, you hated the idea with all your heart - and yet you let yourself become one! You chose to bow to fate instead of fight it, let yourself be pushed into a life that has cost you much and given you little in return. You had a daughter, Brigadier; a beautiful daughter and a loving wife._ It sneered. _And you let them go. The most precious things on Earth to you, and you let this unwanted life take them from you!_

He had let them go. Lethbridge-Stewart felt a painful constriction in his chest, snatching at his breath as he let slip a small gasp. He was reliving it all again; the anger, the confusion, the desperation and then, all too soon, the soul-numbing acceptance.

'I had no choice,' he murmured.

_No one made you._

'It was the only way to keep them safe. Their lives will be better without me in them.'

_And how will you tell that to the little girl who grows up believing her father abandonned her in favour of a duty that, as far as her mother knows, carries only the danger of a vicious papercut?_

Lethbridge-Stewart found that he didn't have an answer. His chest suddenly felt too tight, and he had forgotten how to breathe.

 _The truth is you no longer know what you want,_ It said, its voice softening to something resembling a purr. _You stopped asking yourself years ago._

And it was true. For years he had only thought in terms of what needed to be done, rather than what he’d prefer. The hopes he had once harboured had not lasted beyond Korea, and he had fallen back on duty, as he had been taught to do all through his childhood. He had never once been taught to ask whether duty might give him anything in return.

 _You know what I am,_ It growled softly, padding closer on silent paws. _What I can give you, what I can help you to achieve. But I am lost, I am masterless. Take me for your own, and all that I am shall be at your command._

'I…' His voice faltered once again.

_What is it you want?_

It stood there, waiting, its one eye fixed on him. Now the question had been uttered, he could not shake it. Why had he never asked it of himself? Was he afraid of what the answer might turn out to be?

He wanted…

He wanted to look up at the night sky and not feel the fragility of his race. He wanted his men to come back safely from their missions. He wanted humanity to accept that there was more at stake than their petty politics and economies. He wanted his wife to love him again. He wanted to be there to watch his daughter as she grew. He wanted them both to understand just what he had sacrificed for them. He wanted to not be helpless in the face of the unknown. He wanted a worthier guardian for Earth than a prisoner in exile.

He wanted to take everything the universe threw at him and return it a hundredfold.

 _And it can be yours,_ It said. He had not needed to say a word for it to know his thoughts. _Your people’s fate need not rest on the whims of a feckless alien. Were I yours, and you were mine, you need not wait helpless for the next assault, scrabbling in ignorance and darkness. I could give you the strength to wage war on the stars themselves. You could take the fight to the enemy, meeting them on your own terms. Daleks? You could burn Skaro to dust. Cybermen? You could end them as they lie sleeping in their tombs. The Master…_ It's eye flashed. _Yes, you sorely wish him harm. Think of all the men you've lost because of him! Think of the harm the Doctor perpetuates by letting him roam free! Think of all the times you could have stopped him once and for all, had you only not been prevented! I can give you all the cunning and strength you need to take the Master apart - and no one, no one would be able to stand in your way! All this I can give to you, and more. Accept me as your name, and all the nations of the Earth will follow you to the greatest glory they will ever know._

The world fell into silence. There was nothing around them now, save the mist; no trees, no moon, no stars. Still as a statue, the creature waited. More than ever Lethbridge-Stewart felt the potential of the beast's power; so strong, so clearly, as if it was almost already part of him. He could feel its mind, its soul, and it felt almost the same as his. Together they could accomplish anything and everything, and the universe would be powerless to prevent them.

And that, Lethbridge-Stewart knew, was a thought too terrifying to contemplate.

He straightened his back, once again squaring up to the creature, and narrowed his eyes.

'I already have a name,' he said stiffly. 'And it’s suited me well up ‘til now.

 _A mortal name!_ It spat angrily. _A pitiful label! I offer you Victory, and over that you would choose trifling Identity? What use has that ever been to you?_

Much to Its surprise, however, a thin smile curled at the corners of Lethbridge-Stewart’s mouth.

'You really don’t know what "Alistair" means, do you?' he asked mildly.

 _What can it matter?_ It growled, sharply.

'Quite a lot, actually,' he said. 'You see, I was named after my grandfather, and he always took great delight in explaining its origin to me. "Alistair" is a Scots derivative of the Greek "Alexander". At a rough translation, it means "defender of men".'

The creature froze, and for the first time he sensed its fear. Only now, when it was too late, did It realise its peril.

Calmly, Lethbridge-Stewart raised the shotgun to his shoulder, sighting the barrel right between the creature’s eyes.

'And I,' he said coldly, all traces of humour gone. 'Am very much of the opinion that mankind will be far better off without _you_.'

With a furious howl, the creature sprang for him. A shot rang out through the mist, and was closely followed by a blood-curdling scream.


	6. Chapter 6

‘Miss?’

Jo started and sat up from where she had slumped sideways in the chair, blinking in confusion. 'What?'

Benton offered her one of the two mugs he was carrying. 'I've brought you some tea.'

‘Oh!' Jo rubbed at her bleary eyes, and accepted the mug gratefully. 'Thank you, Sergeant.'

They were outside the infirmary, looking in through the window to the small ward. The Doctor was still sat next to the Brigadier’s bed, hunched over so that their foreheads were touching, eyes closed and brow creased in concentration. Both were still as statues.

'How long has it been now?’ she asked.

‘Nearly six hours. Sorry.' Benton gave Jo a lop-sided smile as her look of surprise shifted to that of betrayal. 'I came by earlier and you'd dozed off. Captain Yates and I reckoned you could use it, so we let you be. We would've woken you were there any news, honest!'

'Well, I suppose I'll forgive you for now,' she said grudgingly. Taking a sip from her tea, she turned back to the ward. 'So there's still no change?'

Benton shook his head. 'Not so much as a twitch from either of them.'

On his part, the sergeant had been practically counting the minutes. It had seemed like the longest six hours of his life – and he hadn't been idle, either. Everyone on the base had to some degree been engaged in the clear-up; signing-off equipment, filing reports, reassuring Whitehall that things were satisfactorily concluded (almost), and telling the Regional Offices to stand down the temporary watches that had been placed on other stone circles throughout the British Isles. There had been one hairy moment when, about two hours ago, a huge black plume of smoke had been spotted rising from the end of the ranges. On Benton’s arrival there though, backed up by a squad armed to the teeth, the sergeant had discovered _that_ had been the fault of Harris and Jenkins. It seemed the two soldiers had been a bit 'careless' with a couple of jerry cans, resulting in the accidental torching of the patch of ground where the mushrooms had been – right down to the topsoil over an area of roughly 20ft square. Benton had of course let rip at the two of them, calling them every name under the sun and a few more besides, and then made damn-well certain that they would be detailed off to re-turf the area over the next week. Later, however, he had found time to slip them a couple of beers in appreciation of a job well done. Nothing would be coming after the Brigadier from that direction.

Benton looked up from contemplating the contents of his mug to see that Jo's attention was still fixed on the Doctor and the Brigadier, her brown eyes wide with worry. He nudged her gently with his elbow.

‘Penny for them?’ he prompted.

Jo dropped her gaze, clasping her hands tightly around the outside of the mug.

'Silly, really,' she said. 'With all the things we’ve been through, somehow he’s always seemed, I don’t know, untouchable.'

'The Doc?'

'No, the Brigadier.' Jo shook her head. 'He's only human, I know, but... It’s like, no matter how bad things get, he’ll always be there, always keep us on track. Whatever happens, however crazy things get, he’ll always be the Good Ol’ Brig; voice of sanity in a universe of ghouls and bogeymen! But this time –'

'We nearly lost him,' Benton finished. Jo bit her lip, nodding, and the sergeant laid a comforting hand on her shoulder. 'When we were in Fairyland, after I’d seen how she’d changed him, I remember wishing that he’d been killed instead. It was horrible, knowing that thing was all that was left of him…' His voice faltered, and he looked away. 'I’m glad you didn’t have to see that, miss.'

He felt Jo’s hand close over the top on his own, and Benton started in surprise. She smiled up at him.

'But you brought him back,' she said firmly, her eyes bright. 'And whatever happens next, he’s where he should be, with those who care about him. All things considered, I think that’s a win.'

Benton dropped his hand, embarrassed. For some reason he suddenly felt very exposed, and he didn't like the sensation one bit.

'Yeah, well,' he mumbled. 'Better than being slave to that witch for all eternity. God, but she made my flesh crawl!'

'And there was me thinking that she was supposed to be "beautiful beyond the wildest dreams of men",' Jo teased.

Benton shuddered, a chill running down his spine at the memory of the raiding party being cornered in the Hall - and the Queen’s cold, predatory smile, enjoying every last moment of their torment. Jo could joke about it, though; she had never seen the Queen and, for that, Benton was grateful.

'I don't know what other men dream about,' he said dubiously. 'But, beautiful or not, she was certainly my idea of a nightmare! You could see it in her eyes; we were nothing to her, only playthings to do with as she pleased until she got bored of us. Thank Heaven for the Doctor and his iron, is all I can say.'

'Just as well you robbed the Queen of her newest ‘plaything’ before she wore him out, then.'

The remark caught Benton just as he was taking a sip of tea, and he spluttered into his mug. He looked at Jo, appalled. 'What did you –?'

Jo couldn’t help it, and burst out laughing.

'Oh, Sergeant,' she said, once she could speak again. 'You are sweet! I heard Hargreaves boasting to his followers about what his ‘alliance’ with the Queen entailed – in stomach-turning detail, I might add! That in mind, and seeing the state of the Brigadier’s back when you all came back through the Circle? Well, it doesn't take a genius to work it out.'

She winked, apparently more amused by the idea than anything else, and not for the first time Benton realised that Jo was far more versed in the ways of the world than he or the other soldiers so often gave her credit for. And she always seemed such a nice, innocent girl...

'Mind you, I’ve never really thought about him that way,’ Jo continued, apparently not yet willing to let the subject drop. ‘I mean, yes, he was married, and then there was that business with Persephone all those years ago, but he’s not exactly first choice to play the handsome prince, is he?'

'He’s not that bad-looking,' Benton muttered defensively, before he could stop himself. When Jo cast him a speculative sideways glance, the sergeant realised he had just made a very big mistake.

'I meant that he never struck me as the romantic lead,' she said coyly, smiling as Benton felt his cheeks burn. She’d caught him out, and she knew it. 'But I suppose you’re more of an authority on him in that regard than I, aren’t you, sergeant?'

Benton winced. He briefly considered denying it, protesting for all he was worth, but after everything that had happened over the past few days, when they had come so close to losing the Brig altogether... He just didn’t have the stomach for it. Besides, Jo would never believe him now.

'Is it that obvious?' he asked lamely.

Jo smiled kindly. 'Only to me,' she said, patting his arm. 'And Mike. And Carol, and Maisie. And most of the typing pool.'

Benton buried his now scarlet face in his hands.

'Don’t worry about it,' Jo carried on cheerfully, doubtlessly thinking she was being reassuring. 'No one else has guessed. No one else knows you well enough.'

'Please stop, miss!' came the muffled plea from behind the sergeant’s hands.

He had enough of those pitying looks from his sister every time he mentioned the Brigadier in conversation. It was a hopeless situation, he knew that; the Brig was so utterly out of his league. Besides, even if Lethbridge-Stewart _was_ that way inclined - which Benton knew with absolute certainty he was not - there was no way any self-respecting CO would compromise himself with his sergeant. It would be unthinkable.

Instead, Benton had contented himself with the thought that it was enough to look after the Brigadier in small ways; to make him coffee, to make sure someone looked out for him whilst he was busy looking out for others, to ensure he didn’t get so buried beneath his work that he forgot to eat or pulled too many all-nighters. That, Benton had reasoned, was safe enough – but it seemed he had reasoned without taking Jo and the rest of the Denham Dames network into account. Oh God, he was never going to be able to set foot in the typing pool again after this, was he?

His face still hot, Benton returned his now somewhat self-conscious gaze to the ward, back to the Doctor and the Brigadier. His stomach clenched uncomfortably, and not for the first time he found himself desperately hoping that the Brig would come through this one alright. Personal or operational, the alternative didn’t bear thinking about.

All of sudden the Doctor’s eyes snapped open. It was so unexpected that Jo let out a little shriek of astonishment, and Benton very nearly dropped his mug in surprise.

‘Dr Swanson!’ the sergeant cried, already halfway into the ward. Swanson was there in an instant, breathless and alert, followed only seconds later by Jo. The Doctor was sitting up, massaging at his temples with his long fingers.

‘Doctor!’ Benton looked anxiously between him and the Brigadier, Swanson automatically checking the patient’s vital signs. There didn’t _seem_ to be any change... ‘What happened? Is the Brig alright?’

The Doctor stopped rubbing his head, and turned to look at them all. His face was unreadable, but if Benton were pushed he would say that the Time Lord looked a little shell-shocked. After a moment’s hesitation, the Doctor shook his head in wonder.

'It’s gone,' he said.

'What’s gone?' Jo asked.

'The virus,’ the Doctor clarified. ‘It’s gone.'

Benton let out a shaky laugh, and Swanson breathed a sigh of relief. Jo’s face broke into a beaming smile.

'Oh, Doctor,' she cried, wrapping her arms around the Doctor’s neck enthusiastically ‘That's wonderful! You did it!’

'Yes, well –’ The Doctor said, still somewhat bemused beneath the onslaught of the hug. ‘– I don’t think I actually did, Jo.’

In that split-second Benton felt the bottom drop out of his stomach once again. _Oh God, no!_

‘But you said –’ he began.

‘On no, it’s definitely gone,’ the Doctor reassured him. ‘But I didn’t do a thing. I mean, I was about to. I’d just found the root of the infection, was readying to try and isolate it so it could be removed, and then all of a sudden it was gone – not a trace of it to be found!’ He shook his head, baffled. ‘I can’t explain it, unless…'

He paused, a sudden thought apparently crossing his mind. He cast a suspicious glance at the Brigadier – still comatose, still unchanged – and then a wide smile spread slowly across his lined face. He began to chuckle.

'You old rogue!' he murmured, half to himself. 'You really are full of surprises, aren’t you?'

'Doctor!' Benton snapped. He really couldn’t take much more of this, and he was dangerously close to losing his temper. 'What’s happened?'

The Doctor turned back to him, Swanson and Jo. Beaming like a Cheshire cat, he pointed to the Brigadier.

'He did it,’ he said smugly. ‘The Brigadier took out the virus by himself. Somehow his mind was strong enough to form a defence and force it out of his system. He didn’t need my help at all!'

Outside the infirmary there came the hasty clatter of assault boots, Mike Yates hurtling into the room seconds later.

‘What happened?’ he asked breathlessly, barely pausing to acknowledge Benton’s bracing up as he entered the ward. He looked searchingly between the Brigadier, the Doctor and Swanson. ‘Is he alright?’

‘It would seem so, sir,’ Swanson answered cheerfully. ‘The virus is gone. According to the Doctor, the Brigadier was able to eject the infection on his own.’

‘Well, hardly surprising, really,’ Yates said, recovering his composure and smiling. ‘I suppose that was always an option, wasn’t it, Doctor?’

‘I would have said "unlikely", but, yes, possible,’ the Doctor conceded. The smile had gone, now, and he was once again looking pensive. ‘All that remains is to clear up the mess that's left behind.’

‘Oh, that’s alright,’ Jo said breezily. ‘You said you could repair any damage done by the Queen.’

The Doctor responded with an assenting ‘harrumph’, but, Benton noted, chose not to offer any further comment.

***

The forest had vanished, and he was standing on a beach. He crunched his way over the pebbles, the wind ruffling his hair, salt spray misting against his cheek. His senses informed him that it was a spring afternoon – sometime in March or April, if he was any judge. A few hundred yards in front of him, further along the strand, he could make out the neglected silhouette of the old West Pier.

Brighton. He was in Brighton.

The beach was deserted, apart from himself. No holiday makers, no sea gulls; just the sound of the waves breaking against the shore, the water sucking at the shingle as it retreated again. Crouching down, he picked up a pebble, feeling the cold touch of stone and rolling the smooth, hard surface between his fingers. Real enough, it would seem; but he had witnessed some very convincing illusions in his time, and he was not beyond accepting that the evidence of his senses might easily be compromised.

He hefted the pebble experimentally, testing the weight and feel, regarding the waves thoughtfully. It was much more difficult to skim a stone on the sea than a river or a lake, but once upon a time he had had the knack. _Now then…_

Turning side-on, he took up the correct stance and slung the pebble at the water. The stone skipped twice before it sank. Not bad, but nowhere near his best. He skimmed a couple more, getting up to three bounces, then five. He was just getting into the swing of it when a familiar voice came from behind him.

'Skills of a misspent youth, Brigadier?'

'Hardly misspent, I assure you,' he replied. He turned, and was unsurprised to find the Doctor standing there. 'This isn’t really Brighton, is it?'

'No,’ the Doctor confirmed. ‘We’re in your subconscious. I put you here so that I might repair the damage the Queen inflicted to the rest of your mind. Your body is currently lying in an induced coma, in the infirmary at UNIT HQ.’

The Brigadier nodded, not in the least bit troubled by this news. It made sense of a few things.

'I thought it might be something of the sort,' he said, pragmatically. 'I was in a forest not long ago, and it was early evening in autumn. The transition from there to here seemed a little incongruous.'

The Doctor’s eyebrows inched upwards, an arch expression on his face.

'You’re getting better at this,' he remarked.

'I suppose it ought to worry me that I am,' Lethbridge-Stewart mused. 'But then I imagine it’s an inevitable consequence of spending time in your company?'

'I think it might be,' the Doctor replied, somewhat apologetically. 'Though you’re the first person I've come across to be affected who hasn’t been in the TARDIS.'

The Brigadier caught the undertone of worry in the Doctor’s voice. 'And that bothers you?' he queried.

'I'm afraid it does,' the Doctor admitted. 'But, first things first. You said you were in a forest?'

'Yes. There was some sort of creature there, stalking me. I had a fancy it belonged to the Queen.’

‘You were right in thinking that,’ the Doctor confirmed. ‘It was only after I had induced the coma that I discovered something had gone wrong. The Queen managed to infect you with a psionic virus before she was defeated, and crossing back into our world activated it.’

The Brigadier nodded his understanding. It fit with what he had already experienced.

'It was the name she would have given me had she managed to…’ He faltered. No, he did not want to even contemplate that notion. ‘Well, had you not rescued me. It was trying to persuade me to adopt it.’

'And what happened to it?' the Doctor asked.

‘I shot it.’

The Doctor’s eyebrows rose to meet his hairline. ‘You shot it?’ he echoed.

‘Yes. I was carrying a gun at the time, after all.’

'Just like that?'

'Oh no, I did talk to it first,' the Brigadier said, a touch of sarcasm entering his voice. 'Can’t shoot a thing without being on first-name terms, can you?'

'Really, Lethbridge-Stewart!' the Doctor snapped but, faced with the Brigadier’s air of polite patience, he could only sigh and shake his head. ‘Well, its argument can’t have been all that convincing, if that was what you did to it.’

'The usual sort of nonsense,’ Lethbridge-Stewart said, folding his hands behind his back. He would spare the Doctor the knowledge of how close he had come to accepting. ‘Power, world domination, that kind of thing. Never occurs to these types that most people just want to get on with their lives and be left in peace. It was quite a pathetic creature, in the end. Above everything else, the promises and the threats, it just wanted a home.' He paused, and smiled thinly. 'I, however, made it quite clear that there wasn’t a vacancy.'

A moment’s silence lapsed between them, and Lethbridge-Stewart turned to consider the shape of the pier. He had met Doris there one evening, at a dance, so many years ago now. Perhaps if he walked that way she would be there, waiting to meet him again? He swore that he could almost hear the music of the band carried on the wind.

'You know, I never really saw the creature’s shape,’ he said absently. ‘Or any detail at all, for that matter, but I knew without question that it was a wolf. And, strange as it sounds, it was wearing an eyepatch.'

'An eyepatch?' The Doctor repeated.

'Yes.’ The Brigadier indicated his left eye. ‘On this side of its face. Bit peculiar, don’t you think?'

For a moment the Time Lord’s expression became wary, but then he seemed to shrug the sensation off. 'It’s your subconscious, Brigadier,' he replied breezily. 'If you can’t explain it, then I’m sure I never could.'

'True.' Lethbridge-Stewart considered the subject further for a moment, then shook his head dismissively. 'I don’t suppose it was important.'

‘No, I don’t suppose it was.’

Another moment’s silence, filled only by the whistling of the wind and crashing of the waves. At length, the Doctor drew a deep breath.

'Alistair,’ he said, his voice grave. ‘I think my association with you is putting you in danger.'

'No more than anyone else, surely?' the Brigadier remarked lightly, but the Doctor held up a quelling hand.

'Actually, yes. When I first met you in the Underground, I could sense there was something unusual about the way time moved around you. At first I thought it was because you were the Intelligence's agent, but in that I was proved wrong. When we faced the Cybermen the feeling had only increased, and since my stay at UNIT it’s only grown stronger. Events are beginning to coalesce around you in a way I haven’t encountered before in a human. It's… Well, it’s actually quite frightening.'

'What do you suppose it means?'

'I have no idea,’ the Doctor admitted. ‘But, when I started to explore your mind, to see just what damage the Queen’s influence had done, I came across far more than I ever expected to encounter. Brigadier, your mind has been under siege for over thirty years.’

Lethbridge-Stewart frowned, thinking he must have heard the Doctor incorrectly. ‘Come again?’

'There’s traces of psychic interference with your mind spanning decades,’ the Doctor explained, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. ‘All from a variety of sources. I counted three separate mental blocks; one partially broken, the others too strong for me to remove. There’s several deep traumas, two previous direct telepathic attacks – and, as if that weren’t enough, there’s permanent scarring from what looks like a period of intense exposure to strong psychoactive drugs about ten years ago.'

'Ah.’

'Truth be told, I’m honestly astounded you’re not occupying a small padded cell somewhere!'

'Steady on!' Lethbridge-Stewart choked, and the Doctor directed a swift look of apology in his direction.

'I’m sorry, Alistair,' he said, reigning himself in a bit. 'It’s just the human brain isn’t built to withstand such mental stresses, and the severity of some of these attacks is appalling. That you haven’t had a breakdown already is practically a miracle. Actually, no, nothing to do with you should surprise me anymore.’ The Doctor sighed heavily, running a hand through his mop of white hair. ‘Even without the Queen’s interference, I estimate you would have suffered a debilitating episode in about three months or so, and I sincerely doubt that, even with my help, you would have recovered enough to stay in the Army. And all this time I was here, standing by without a clue!'

There was a distracted, angry expression on the Doctor’s face, and the Brigadier recognised the signs; already his friend was beginning to blame himself and, under the circumstances, that would not do at all. He took a step forward, laying a hand firmly on the Doctor’s shoulder, and the Time Lord flinched at the unexpected contact, having already started to wrap himself up in his own thoughts.

'Could you have known?' the Brigadier asked quietly.

The Doctor met his gaze reluctantly, grey eyes sad. 'I suppose not, no,' he admitted.

‘Then stop being so hard on yourself,' Lethbridge-Stewart chided. 'You’ve found out now, so you can do something about it. You _are_ able to do something about it, I take it?’ The Doctor nodded. ‘Good, so no harm done. Shall we get on, then?’

The Doctor, however, rubbed the back of his neck in a gesture of irritation. The subject clearly still bothered him. 'But I can’t for the life of me think why! You’ve only had as much contact with the unknown as the others, even counting the Yeti, but you’ve been singled out as a target - not once, but multiple times by non-terrestrial agencies. It doesn’t make sense! Is there _anything_ that may have happened to you outside of our association that could have caused this?'

There was, and he knew it, but there were some things that Lethbridge-Stewart would never tell the Doctor. On top of that, also, there were orders. Orders worked on a need-to-know basis, and the Doctor certainly didn’t need to know. So, instead of speculating, the Brigadier merely looked blank, shaking his head in a close approximation of cluelessness.

‘Not that I can recall, Doctor. But, then again, if it has affected me as badly as you say, I may not be _able_ to remember.’

‘More than likely the case, I should imagine,’ the Doctor conceded grudgingly, and that, Lethbridge-Stewart was relieved to see, appeared to be that.

The afternoon seemed to be drawing on, and the Brigadier turned again towards the pier, gazing at the beach stretching away into the distance. He knew he had to get back to the real world at some point, but would it really hurt to stay here a little longer?

And he could definitely hear music now.

'I suppose I will have to leave here?' he asked. The Doctor smiled, catching the wistfulness in his voice, and the corners of his eyes crinkled with mischief. The Time Lord was clearly back in his old, self-assured stride.

'Yes, but not just yet,' he replied. 'Stay here a while longer, if you wish; I’m sure the peace will do you good. I’ll come and fetch you when it’s time.'

The Brigadier nodded his agreement. After having had the Queen in his head, and then the wolf, he would be glad of a little extra time to himself.

‘And will I remember being here? This conversation?’

'Unlikely,' the Doctor said, matter-of-factly. 'Fragments, maybe, like a forgotten dream. And, all things considered, it’s probably better that you don’t.’

The Brigadier nodded again. ‘Very good,’ he said, and turned back to the sea, rolling the pebble he had been holding throughout the encounter between his fingers thoughtfully.

If this was his mind, he mused, there was no reason he couldn’t get the stone to skim all the way to the horizon...

***

When Lethbridge-Stewart woke, it felt as if he was surfacing from a great depth. He opened his eyes, and instantly regretted the decision, groaning as he was met by a blinding field of white. His head throbbed painfully.

'How are you feeling?' the Doctor asked.

'Like I’ve got the mother of all hangovers,' he murmured groggily.

He heard the Time Lord give a low chuckle. 'Trust me, you could have come away with a lot worse. As it is, you got off very lightly.'

Lethbridge-Stewart supposed he should be grateful for that, but couldn’t really muster the enthusiasm right at that moment, so he tried to sit up instead. The Doctor supported his shoulders, reaching behind him to adjust the pillows so that he could stay propped-up comfortably. He then poured a glass of water from the jug on the bedside cabinet, and held it steady whilst the Brigadier drank. Until that point Lethbridge-Stewart had not realised just how thirsty he was, and he began to gulp the water down greedily – only to have the Doctor take the glass away, triggering a noise of protest from his throat.

‘Not unless you slow down,’ the Doctor chided. ‘I don’t want you bringing it back up again.’

Two glasses later, consumed at a much steadier pace, Lethbridge-Stewart felt refreshed enough to hold a conversation. 'How long has it been?' he asked, thinking it would be best to start by establishing a rough time-frame for himself.

'Two days since we brought you out of the Mound,’ the Doctor replied. ‘Five since you were taken prisoner by the Queen.’ He replaced the empty glass on the cabinet, and his grey eyes searched the Brigadier’s face; calculating, assessing. 'I’m happy to say your stay on the beach seems to have improved matters tremendously.’

Lethbridge-Stewart frowned, confused. ‘Beach? What beach?’

He didn’t remember any beach yet, far from seeming concerned, the Doctor made a noise of satisfaction.

‘Just testing,’ he said, smiling. ‘Yes, no doubt about it; you’ll be right as rain in no time.’

‘I'm relieved to hear it,’ Lethbridge-Stewart muttered. He still didn’t understand why the Doctor had mentioned a beach, though. Doubtless he would have to chalk it up as yet one more thing he would never understand about this infuriating man.

Point of reference established, and the ache in his head having subsided somewhat, Lethbridge-Stewart began to take stock of his physical condition. The bruising and lacerations across his back he could still feel, and probably would be able to for the next week. He felt utterly exhausted, as was only to be expected, despite his apparently having been asleep for days. The left side of his face felt stiff and painful, and he gingerly raised an aching hand to his cheek, carefully exploring the tender flesh there.

‘Yes, I’m afraid that was Benton’s doing,’ the Doctor said, a note of apology entering his voice.

The Brigadier looked up in astonishment. ‘ _Benton?_ ’

‘He became very worried when you were fighting against the iron,’ the Doctor explained, though it was clear that he did not understand the full implication of the sergeant’s action. ‘I think he panicked. He was just as shocked as you were after he’d done it.’

 _He would have to have been,_ the Brigadier reflected, bewildered. Benton was a good soldier; honest, loyal, brave, and utterly correct in all his dealings. For Benton to have transgressed one of the Army’s cardinal laws in so outrageous a manner, things must have been very desperate indeed. He explored the bruise gently with his fingertips. It felt as if it had been a very hefty wallop, which from Benton’s burly frame would make perfect sense. Lethbridge-Stewart let out a weak chuckle.

‘I’d hate to be on the receiving end when he means it!’ he said, but only half-joking. Prior to his transfer to UNIT, Benton had boxed for the Paras, and was rumoured to possess a right hook that could floor anything up to and including the size of a bull.

‘You also ought to know,’ the Doctor continued, pushing the remark to one side. ‘He called you “Alistair”.’

That piece of information wiped all trace of a smile from the Brigadier’s face. The Doctor, however, merely shook his head and smiled, a significant look in his eyes.

‘Don’t worry, none of the men noticed; they were still stunned from your having nearly bitten Walsh’s finger off. And it’s hardly any of my business.’

‘Damn right it’s not,’ Lethbridge-Stewart muttered under his breath, though he couldn’t understand for the life of him why the Doctor was giving him that look – or what on earth Benton had been about using his Christian name. All bets had certainly been off during his rescue, that was clear; yet even so, something didn’t quite tally, and it troubled him both more and less than he felt was appropriate or natural. It was a feeling Lethbridge-Stewart did not like in the slightest.

The Doctor noticed his friend’s discomfort, and the smile slipped from his face to be replaced by a puzzled expression. The two exchanged glances for a while, the Doctor querying, the Brigadier deeply confused. The Doctor broke the stalemate.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said hesitantly. ‘I was given to understand that...’

His voice dried up, and Lethbridge-Stewart realised that he was witnessing one of those rare occasions when the Doctor was genuinely lost for words. There had clearly been a miscommunication somewhere, though the Brigadier was not entirely sure how it had come about, or what exactly it was that the Doctor believed he had misunderstood. Either way, trying to decipher the tangle was only starting to make Lethbridge-Stewart’s head hurt again, and he closed his eyes in an attempt to ease the throbbing. Fortunately, the Time Lord took this as his cue to drop the subject, much to the Brigadier’s relief.

‘How is your memory of the event?’ the Doctor asked, returning to assessing his patient. ‘When we woke you in the Mound you seemed to recall most of what had happened, but afterwards you were in need of quite a bit of patching up, mentally. I did my best to keep what I could, but some parts of your mind had been interfered with to a point where some gaps are inevitable.’

Complying with the Doctor’s request, Lethbridge-Stewart kept his eyes shut and began to methodically sift through his recollection of the past few days.

‘I remember everything leading up to and including the raid on Wootton Underhill,’ he said. In his head he played through the events of that night. 'Actually, I think I remember that a lot better than I did before.’

‘At what point do things become hazy?’ the Doctor asked.

‘Shortly after Hargreaves and I had passed through the Circle. No, wait...’ Even that had come back to him now. He remembered tumbling through the stones, coming to a disorientated halt in the Circle. Lethbridge-Stewart had looked up, nauseated and confused, to find himself in a completely different place, and a horde of Sidhe surrounding them, armed to the teeth, the Queen at their head resplendent in battle armour. Hargreaves had taken advantage of his momentary disorientation to break free of his grasp, and had run to the Queen, arms flung wide and beaming – ox horns skewed, robes tangling around his ankles in a ridiculous fashion. And yet it was still only then, with the Queen towering above him, her face a mask of cold fury, that the wretched man had finally realised the true depths of his self-delusion and folly.

‘I remember everything clearly up until Hargreaves was killed,’ Lethbridge-Stewart said quietly. He gave an involuntary shudder, suddenly feeling cold despite the blankets. ‘Poor fellow. He didn’t deserve that. Nobody does.’

‘And after that?’ the Doctor prompted, but the Brigadier sighed.

‘Not much that makes sense,’ he said. ‘Not until you revived me in that chamber. I remember bits and pieces, isolated incidents, all jumbled together with no sense of order or time. It’s like trying to remember a dream. Or a nightmare.’

A nightmare was certainly more fitting. When he thought of what he had done –

The snake. The cheering Court and the dying Lordling. Lethbridge-Stewart shivered again, feeling the blood drain from his face as he remembered. The one thing in this whole mess he could not blame on anybody else; it had been his choice to kill, and his alone.

‘Alistair,’ the Doctor said, laying a hand gently on his shoulder, stormy eyes concerned. ‘That’s twice I’ve seen that expression on your face, and I really don’t care for it at all. Won’t you tell me what happened?’

He only wanted to help, the Brigadier knew that, but could he confess to such an action? Then he frowned, a spike of anger replacing the knot of shame that had been forming in his chest. Yes, yes he damn well could, and should. He was an officer and a gentleman; taking responsibility was what he was there for. He would not be a coward, and he would face up to his actions. Lethbridge-Stewart raised his eyes, determinedly meeting the Doctor’s gaze.

‘I murdered one of the Court using magic,’ he said bluntly. There, it was said now; there was no taking it back. ‘I was not ordered to do it; it was an act of petty revenge. Cold-blooded, calculated murder – and I _enjoyed_ it!’

His disgust was clear in his voice, as was his anger at himself. The admission made him feel dirty beyond salvation, and he braced himself for the Doctor's reaction. But the Time Lord merely sat there quietly, his face impassive.

‘I wouldn’t be too hard on yourself,’ the Doctor said, after a moment. ‘She had supressed your ability to tell right from wrong, impeding every one of your moral sensibilities. You were not yourself – the rational, compassionate self that I know and respect. You are not to blame for any action you took whilst under her influence. You are not a murderer, Alistair. You never have been, and you never will be.’

‘You were happy to call me a murderer after Wenley Moor.’

‘That was different – and, in that, I have admitted I was wrong to do so. You are yourself again, and that self is holding you to account; which is enough to persuade me that the deed was the Queen’s doing, not yours.’

Lethbridge-Stewart felt a constriction in his chest, and he dropped his gaze to the bedsheets, unable to meet the Doctor’s eyes any longer. The Brigadier had expected the man’s disappointment or indignation; he did not know what to do with sympathy.

‘She took me over so easily, though,’ he said quietly. ‘I barely put up a fight.’

‘Rubbish,’ the Doctor scoffed.

‘But –’

‘She gained partial control, yes,’ the Doctor said sternly, ignoring the Brigadier’s protest. ‘But that’s as far as she got. You’re incredibly strong-minded, Alistair; I’ve always told you that.’

At that, Lethbridge-Stewart could not help but quirk an eyebrow sceptically. ‘I believe “stubborn” and “pig-headed” are your usual choice of words, Doctor.’

‘Well, yes, certainly in my more irate moments. But I mean it; for a human being you have a mind that is particularly resistant to external influences. Have you not wondered why the Master’s never tried to hypnotise you? He took one look at you and quickly realised it would be more trouble than it was worth.’

‘I think I’ll choose to take that as a compliment,’ the Brigadier muttered.

‘You should,’ the Doctor said pointedly. ‘The Queen possessed formidable psionic abilities. Over the centuries she’s become infinitely adept at influencing others, subjugating thousands from all different species and walks of life; against such an onslaught as hers, many Time Lords I know would have been left helpless. But your mind – your stubborn, pig-headed human mind – managed to keep her at bay for three days, and that, Lethbridge-Stewart, is a compliment indeed!’

‘She’s not dead, though,’ the Brigadier said flatly. He was uncertain about many things which had occurred over the last few days, but that was not one of them. ‘Even using her own weapons she was too powerful for me to destroy. The Sidhe will be back.’

‘Yes,’ the Doctor agreed. ‘But, if I’m not mistaken, probably not for a few hundred years. It’ll take her a very long time to recover her strength, and that’s all thanks to you.’

The Brigadier gave a humourless smile. ‘Well, that’s something I managed to get right, at least.’

‘You certainly did,’ the Doctor said, suddenly amused. ‘I’m actually rather impressed that you managed to wrest control of the field from her like that. Even with the link, I should have believed it beyond your capabilities – as was the opinion of the Queen, for that matter. What gave you the edge?’

Lethbridge-Stewart turned his gaze towards the window, away from the Doctor, so that the Time Lord could not see his expression. It was a moment before he trusted himself to answer.

‘I’ve lost too many men,’ he said flatly. ‘And I remember each and every one of them. She would have had me believe they died for nothing, and I wasn’t going to let her be right.’

He turned to face the Doctor once more.

‘Humanity is a flawed race,’ he said. ‘We’re cruel, we’re petty, we’ve committed many atrocities and, in all honesty, we’ll probably continue to do so. But they are my people, this is my world. For all the horrors I have seen, I know that the good outweighs the bad – and no one, no one will convince me that we are not worth fighting for. Not the Cybermen, not the Master –’ His gaze hardened. ‘Not even you, Doctor.’

A sombre silence fell between them and, this time, Lethbridge-Stewart was happy to let it lie. The Doctor would understand exactly what he meant, and the expression in his friend’s eyes confirmed it – an infinitesimal nod of his head conveying that understanding, and respect. Then the mood was broken, the Doctor’s mouth once again curling into a wry smile.

‘But, really, lions?’ he teased. ‘A touch melodramatic, don’t you think?’

Lethbridge-Stewart dropped his gaze to the blankets in his lap, embarrassed.

‘It was the first thing that came into my head,’ he admitted. ‘I was still thinking of the oath, and I remembered the lion and crossed swords of the Army emblem that had been at the top of the paper. Somehow shaping the flames into lions seemed like a logical thing to do.’

‘On the contrary it makes perfect sense. Psionic energy is closely linked with the emotions, so it is particularly receptive to emotional impulses. For you, the lion on your cap badge is a symbol of strength, order and security; what nobler a beast to call up and send against the Queen?’

Possibly because they had moved on to the theme of embarrassment, an unsettling thought suddenly crossed Lethbridge-Stewart’s mind. He glanced at the Doctor with some trepidation.

‘It is Yates who is handling the clear-up, isn’t it?’ he asked. When the Doctor nodded in confirmation, Lethbridge-Stewart relaxed and breathed a sigh of relief. ‘Thank God. If it was Cosworth I would have probably ended it here and now.’

The Doctor tutted. ‘How very churlish of you, after all of the trouble we’ve been to. What’s wrong with Cosworth, besides he’s an idiot?’

The Brigadier could not help but wince.

'Petty of me, I know,’ he said. He desperately tried to think of a way to approach the subject delicately. ‘Whilst a competent officer and a steady fellow, Major Cosworth is not known for his tact. Were he the one to be writing up the reports, it would not occur to him to spare my blushes. Yates will have it in mind to be a little more circumspect with the details of my… captivity.’

‘You seem to be making a habit of it,’ the Doctor said with mock-disapproval. ‘Persephone, then Ikiria, now the Queen… Well, I’m telling you, young man; the next time an all-powerful immortal beauty turns up, evil or benign, you’re not going anywhere near her without a chaperone!’

‘You won’t be hearing any protest from me,’ Lethbridge-Stewart remarked dryly. He shifted against the pillows, trying to sit further upright, whilst looking for any sign of his uniform. It seemed conspicuous by its absence. ‘How much longer do you reckon before I’m fit for duty?’

‘Oh, I’m afraid you’ll be enduring a few more days’ bed rest yet,’ the Doctor warned. ‘Apart from your other injuries, you’re still recovering from the effects of acute starvation and dehydration. All being well, you’ll be back on solid food the day after tomorrow.’

The Brigadier sighed, resigned, and let his head fall back against the pillow.

‘Two days of soup,’ he grumbled, glaring at the ceiling. ‘Wonderful.’

The Doctor’s lined face broke into a dazzling grin.

‘Cheer up, Lethbridge-Stewart!’ he said. ‘I’ll make sure it’s good soup.’

***

Jo came by that afternoon to pay him a visit – which was very kind of her, and so very like Jo. However, it was not long into her visit that Lethbridge-Stewart found himself wishing that she hadn’t been so keen on the idea that he needed ‘cheering up’. He lifted his gaze from the unwrapped present in his lap, and met Jo’s expectant face. What on earth could he say?

‘Um, thank you, Miss Grant.’ Not very eloquent, but it would do. ‘How very thoughtful.’

Jo beamed in response, delighted that he apparently liked her gift. ‘Well, I thought you could do with some company. It can’t be fun sitting here all day by yourself.’

‘It can get a little quiet, I admit,’ he said, forcing himself to raise a smile. Over the top of Jo’s head Lethbridge-Stewart could see Dr Swanson standing in the doorway of his office, holding his sides and doing his best not to laugh. He vowed there and then that the MO would atone for that later.

Her smile widening, Jo took hold of his hand and gave it an encouraging squeeze.

‘You’ll be out of here in no time, sir, you see! You’re already looking so much better than you were yesterday.’

The Brigadier returned her smile, but this time with a genuine warmth.

‘I shall consider it my duty to prove you right, Miss Grant.’

Once she had gone, Lethbridge-Stewart directed a glare across the room at Swanson.

‘And you can stop enjoying yourself!’ he growled.

‘You’ll have to keep it now, sir,’ Swanson warned, no longer bothering to even try to hide his amusement. ‘She’ll get terribly upset if you don’t.’

‘I suppose I will have to,’ Lethbridge-Stewart agreed reluctantly, already resigning himself to the fact.

 _And who knew?_ he thought, but without much conviction as he regarded the saccharine thing glumly. He might even get used to the sight of a bright orange teddy bear sitting on his bedside table…

***

Benton hovered outside the infirmary door, peering through the window into the ward whilst doing his best to keep out of sight. The Brigadier was propped up in bed reading, by all appearances completely absorbed in his book, and the sergeant studied his profile critically. The Brig’s skin was more or less back to its usual healthy colour, though the shadows beneath his eyes still betrayed his exhaustion. From this angle only the right side of his face was visible, the left being turned towards the exterior window, but Benton could vividly picture the bruising that he knew to be there – and the sergeant still felt absolutely wretched about being the cause of it. Captain Yates’ black eye had just about faded out, reduced to a fetching mottled brown with tinges of yellow. The Brig’s would still be showing this time next week.

Otherwise, the Brigadier seemed to be doing well. He had clearly shaved, his moustache once again precisely trimmed – and, by the looks of it, he had had his hair cut too, which meant he must have summoned the base barber not long after he regained consciousness that morning. Benton allowed himself a small, affectionate smile at the thought. Couldn’t let standards slip, could we? Even when on sick parade.

‘Ah, sergeant. Come to pay a visit?’

Benton spun round on his heels, startled to find Dr Swanson standing behind him. He hadn’t heard the MO approach at all.

‘No, sir!’ he stuttered, caught completely off his guard. ‘That is, yes. What I mean is –’

He had been _thinking_ about visiting the Brigadier, but once he had got to the infirmary Benton had found that his nerve had all but failed him. And in any case, the Brig was in need of rest – ‘peace and quiet’ the Doctor had said – so there was no call to keep bothering him with visitor after visitor, was there? No, better just to let him be. Swanson, however, did not seem to hear Benton’s strangled protest, and simply opened the door to the ward.

The Brigadier looked up from his book. ‘Yes, Swanson?’

‘Sergeant Benton is here to see you, sir,’ Swanson announced, and the small portion of Benton’s brain that was not consumed by anxiety registered the irony of the situation – usually it was he who was conducting visitors into the lion’s den.

‘Show him in, then,’ was the Brigadier’s response, and the sergeant felt his stomach perform something resembling a flip-flop. He nodded to Swanson, stiffened to attention and marched into the ward, halting and bracing up just short of the Brigadier’s bed. Risking a glance downwards, Benton found the Brig’s hazel eyes were regarding him with amusement.

‘At ease, Benton,’ the Brigadier said kindly. He indicated the chair next to the bed. ‘Take a seat.’

‘I’m perfectly alright standing, sir –’

‘For goodness’ sake, Benton, sit down! Besides making the place look untidy, trying to talk to you from this angle is making my neck ache.’

Benton’s knees instantly folded beneath him, and his rear met the seat of the chair with an inelegant _thump_ , his back ramrod straight.

The Brigadier clearly resisted the urge to roll his eyes. ‘It’ll do,’ he said, wearily.

Suddenly finding himself in such close proximity to the Brigadier, and presented with the sight of the black eye that was his fault, Benton now felt a strong desire to look anywhere apart from directly at the man. As such, the sergeant’s eyes were irresistibly drawn to the bright orange teddy bear sitting on the bedside cabinet, incongruously colourful compared to its surroundings. The Brigadier’s gaze followed, and a look of mild despair crossed his face.

‘I was paid a visit by Miss Grant, earlier,’ he said unenthusiastically, by way of explanation.

‘So I heard, sir,’ Benton answered, careful to keep his expression neutral. As soon as Jo had heard the Brig was awake and very much on the mend, she had dragged Mike off to town to help her choose a ‘get well’ present. They had returned two hours later, Jo happily chuntering on about the ‘most darling little teddy bear’ they had found, which she was sure the Brigadier would absolutely love. Benton thought he would spare his superior the knowledge that Mike had only just managed to persuade her to go for the orange teddy bear, and not the lime green one she had originally spotted. The Mess, however, had clubbed together to get the Brig a bottle of his favourite malt, which they intended to smuggle in later as soon as Swanson went off duty.

Benton spared another glance at the teddy bear. It really was _very_ orange.

‘How are you feeling, sir?’ he ventured. If he was here in the role of a well-wisher, he ought to get on with it and enquire after the man’s health.

‘I have been better,’ the Brig quipped dryly. ‘Though as I understand, I am lucky to be here at all, so I daresay I have very little to complain about.’

The Brigadier shifted in the bed, trying to sit in a more upright position, only to freeze a moment later, a look of pain flashing across his face. Benton was immediately leaning forward, ready to assist, but the Brigadier waved him away impatiently.

‘I’m fine!’ he hissed through gritted teeth, and Benton knew better than to argue. The sergeant sat back, clasping his hands nervously in his lap as the Brig steadied himself for a moment, then leaned back into the pillows, a small moan escaping from his throat as he did so.

Looking up at Benton’s concerned face, the Brigadier let out a weak chuckle. He indicated the bruising down the side of his face, a smirk curling at the corners of his moustache.

‘Apparently I have you to thank for this?’ he said archly, and Benton had to force himself not to cringe.

‘Yes, sir,’ he said, apologetically. ‘Sorry, sir.’

The Brig, however, merely shook his head with detached amusement. ‘Don’t worry, Benton, I’ll forgive you this time. I have been reliably informed that my own behaviour was less than exemplary at that particular moment. How is Walsh, by the way?’

‘Still light duties, sir, and revelling in it,’ Benton replied, relieved beyond measure. The Brigadier would have been well within his rights to put the sergeant on a charge and send him for a court martial; striking a superior officer, whatever the circumstances, was one of the most serious offences that could be committed. Despite the Brig’s magnanimity, Benton knew the event would never sit right on his conscience. ‘He’ll regret it when he’s back on the full roster, though.’

‘See that he does,’ the Brigadier replied, arching an eyebrow.

The room fell into silence as the conversation went dry. Ruffled feathers smoothed and small talk exchanged, there was little else that Benton could think of to talk to the Brigadier about. They didn’t spend time together socially and, besides matters connected with work, Benton did not think he had ever held a proper conversation with the man in all the years they had known each other.

As the silence extended, a somewhat uncomfortable expression crossed the Brigadier’s face, his gaze shifting to the other side of the ward. He cleared his throat awkwardly.

‘Shall I fetch you a mug of tea, sir?’ Benton asked, already halfway out of the chair. ‘They should have a brew on in the office downstairs.’

‘No, stay where you are,’ the Brigadier said shortly, and Benton sat down again with a growing sense of unease. What could this possibly be leading up to?

For his part, the Brigadier honestly looked somewhat lost – perturbed, even, as if he were about to perform an unpleasant task. Clearing his throat again, he raised his eyes to meet the sergeant’s; resolute, it seemed, in his decision to address whatever was on his mind.  

‘Following the events of this past week, I have come to realise I owe you a great deal, Benton, and that I have not always been forthcoming in my praise. Thank you.’

For a moment Benton sat stock still, not quite understanding what he had heard. Once he realised that the Brig was not, in fact, lining him up for a bollocking, but… congratulating him? For what?

‘It was you who saved us in the end, sir,’ Benton pointed out, but the Brigadier shook his head.

‘It was the thought of you and the men that made me rally. Had it just been my life at risk I don’t honestly think I would have cared, but when she threatened you… That was unacceptable.’

Genuinely lost for words, Benton could only give a very mumbled ‘would’ve done the same for us, sir,’ in response. The Brigadier brow creased.

‘I’m not entirely convinced that I would have,’ he admitted quietly. ‘You went looking for me, risking your lives even when you couldn’t be certain there was anything left of me to rescue.’

Benton had no option but to smile at that. _Officers._ They were all the same, really; always referring to _their_ men. What they had never twigged was that it was, in fact, very much the other way round.

‘You’re our CO, sir,’ he said simply, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. Which it was. ‘Dead or alive, she wasn’t keeping you. She didn’t have the right.’

An odd expression flitted across the Brigadier’s face, but it was gone almost instantly. He let out another sigh, sinking back against the pillows and briefly closed his eyes. It seemed, for now, that he was willing to let that one lie. Benton reflected that it was probably better for his peace of mind that he did so.

‘Life’s never exactly what you would call “quiet” for us, is it, Benton?’ the Brigadier murmured archly.

They were back onto safe ground once again, firmly fixed on the day job. Before the sergeant’s mind’s eye there appeared a little scrap of paper, carrying nothing but a doodle of a globe and wings surrounded by scratched-out phrases in Latin. This at least, Benton reflected, was something they both understood implicitly.

‘Well, sir… _Monstruosos res superamus._ _’_

The Brigadier looked up in surprise, and the sergeant’s face broke into a grin.

‘It’s true, sir,’ he said. ‘After all, who else could they trust with the weird shit?’

 

FIN.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And finally, it's done! Thank you for coming along with me for the ride - I hope, very much, that you've enjoyed yourselves. :)
> 
> The references to Persephone and Ikiria are from the following expanded Whoniverse adventures:
> 
> Prose: 'Deadly Reunion' by Terrance Dicks & Barry Letts (PDA, BBC Books 2003)  
> Audio: 'The Rings of Ikiria' by Richard Dinnick (Big Finish, 2012)


End file.
